ROSE  AND  ROOF- TR 


JESSAMINE.     See  p.  74. 


ROSE  AND  ROOF -TREE 


POEMS 


BY 


GEORGE   PARSONS  LATHROP 


BOSTON 
JAMES    R.  OSGOOD   AND   COMPANY 

1875 


Copyright,  1875,  by  GKORGE  PARSONS  LATHROP 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED  AND   PRINTED   BY 

H.  O.  HOUGHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


Upon  the  enchanted  ladder  of  his  rhymes, 
Round  after  round  and  patiently 
The  poet  ever  upward  climbs. 


203 


- 
*  /v 


DEDICATION. 

I  need  give  my  verse  no  hint  as  to  whom  it  sings  for. 
The  rose,  knowing  her  own  right,  makes  servitors  of 
tJie  light-rays  to  carry  her  color.  So  every  line  here 
shall  in  some  sense  breathe  of  thee,  and  in  its  very  face 
bear  record  of  her  whom,  however  unworthily,  it  seeks 
to  serve  and  honor. 


CONTENTS. 


WINDFALLS. 

PAGE 

ROSE  AND  ROOF-TREE 13 

Music  OF  GROWTH 16 

A  SONG  LONG  AGO 17 

MELANCHOLY 18 

CONTENTMENT 19 

PART  FIRST. 

AN  APRIL  ARIA 23 

THE  BOBOLINK .25 

THE  SUN-SHOWER 26 

JUNE  LONGINGS 27 

A  RUNE  OF  THE  RAIN 28 

THE  SONG-SPARROW 34 

FAIRHAVEN  BAY 37 

CHANT  FOR  AUTUMN 40 

BEFORE  THE  SNOW 43 

THE  GHOSTS  OF  GROWTH     . ' 45 

THE  LILY- POND' 46 


X  CONTENTS. 

PART   SECOND. 

PAGE 

FIRST  GLANCE 51 

"THE  SUNSHINE  OF  THINE  EYES"  ....  52 

"WHEN,  LOOKING  DEEPLY  IN  THY  FACE"         .        .  53 

WITHIN  A  YEAR 54 

THE  SINGING  WIRE 56 

MOODS  OF  LOVE  : 

I.  In  Absence        ......  59 

II.  Heart's  Fountain 60 

III.  South- Wind  Song      .....  61 

IV.  The  Lover's  Year 62 

V.  New  Worlds 63 

VI.  Wedding-Night 64 

LOVE'S  DEFEAT 65 

MAY  AND  MARRIAGE 67 

THE  FISHER  OF  THE  CAPE 69 

SAILOR'S  SONG 70 

JESSAMINE 74 

GRIEF'S  HERO 79 

A  FACE  IN  THE  STREET    .......  83 

THE  BATHER 84 

HELEN  AT  THE  LOOM        ...  88 

"  O  WHOLESOME  DEATH  " 93 

BURIAL-SONG  FOR  SUMNER 04 

ARISE,  AMERICAN  ! 101 

THE  SILENT  TIDE 104 


WINDFALLS. 


ROSE   AND    ROOF-TREE. 


O  WAYWARD  rose,  why  dost  thou  wreathe 
so  high, 
Wasting  thyself  in  sweet-breath'd  ecstasy  ? 


"  The  pulses  of  the  wind  my  life  uplift, 
And  through  my  sprays  I  feel  the  sunlight  sift ; 

"  And  all  my  fibres,  in  a  quick  consent 
Entwined,  aspire  to  fill  their  heavenward  bent. 

"  I  feel  the  shaking  of  the  far-off  sea, 
And  all  things  growing  blend  their  life  with  me  : 

"  When  men  and  women  on  me  look,  there  glows 
Within  my  veins  a  life  not  of  the  rose. 

"  Then  let  me  grow,  until  I  touch  the  sky, 
And  let  me  grow  and  grow  until  I  die  !  " 


14  ROSE  AND  ROOF-TREE. 

So,  every  year,  the  sweet  rose  shooteth  higher, 
And  scales  the  roof  upon  its  wings  of  fire, 

And  pricks  the  air,  in  lovely  discontent, 
With  thorns  that  question  still  of  its  intent. 

But  when  it  reached  the  roof-tree,  there  it  clung, 
Nor  ever  farther  up  its  blossoms  flung. 

O  wayward  rose,  why  hast  thou  ceased  to  climb  ? 
Hast  thou  forgot  the  ardor  of  thy  prime  ? 

"  O  hearken  !  "  —  thus  the  rose-spray,  listening, — 
"With  what  weird  music  sweet  these  full  hearts 
ring! 

"  What  mazy  ripples  of  deep,  eddying  sound, 
Rise,  touch  the  roof-tree  old,  and  drift  around, 

u  Bearing  aloft  the  burden  musical 
Of  joys  and  griefs  from  human  hearts  that  fall  ! 

"  Green  stem  and  fair,  flush'd  circle  I  will  lay 
Along  the  roof,  and  listen  here  alway ; 


A'OSX  AND  ROOF-TREE.  15 

"  For  rose  and  tree,  and  every  leafy  growth 
That  toward  the  sky  unfolds  with  spiry  blowth, 

"  No  purpose  hath  save  this,  to  breathe  a  grace 

* 
O'er  men,  and  in  men's  hearts  to  seek  a  place. 

"  Therefore,  O  poet,  thou  who  gav'st  to  me 
The  homage  of  thy  humble  sympathy, 

"  No  longer  vest  thy  verse  in  rose-leaves  frail :  — 
Let  the   heart's  voice   loud   through   thy  paean 
wail ! " 


Lo,  at  my  feet  the  wind  of  autumn  throws 
A  hundred  turbulent  blossoms  of  the  rose, 

Full  of  the  voices  of  the  sea  and  grove 
And  air,  and  full  of  hidden,  murmured  love, 

And -warm  with   passion   through   the   roof-tree 

sent; 
Dew-drenched  with  tears ;  —  all  in  one  wild  gush 

spent ! 


MUSIC   OF  GROWTH. 

Music  is  in  all  growing  things  ; 

And  underneath  the  silky  wings 
Of  smallest  insects  there  is  stirred 
A  pulse  of  air  that  must  be  heard. 

Earth's  silence  lives,  and  throbs,  and  sings. 

If  poet  from  the  vibrant  strings 
Of  his  poor  heart  a  measure  flings, 
Laugh  not,  that  he  no  trumpet  blows  : 
It  may  be  that  Heaven  hears  and  knows 
His  language  of  low  listenings. 


A   SONG  LONG   AGO. 

THROUGH  the  pauses  of  thy  fervid  singing 

Fell  crystal  sound 
That  thy  fingers  from  the  keys  were  flinging 

Lightly  around  : 
I  felt  the  vine-like  harmonies  close  clinging 

About  my  soul ; 
And  to  my  eyes,  as  fruit  of  their  sweet  bringing, 

The  full  tear  stole ! 


MELANCHOLY. 

DAUGHTER  of  my  nobler  hope 
That  dying  gave  thee  birth, 

Sweet  Melancholy! 
For  memory  of  the  dead, 
In  her  dear  stead, 
'Bide  thou  with  me, 
Sweet  Melancholy! 
As  purple  shadows  to  the  tree, 
When  the  last  sun-rays  sadly  slope 
Athwart  the  bare  and  darkening  earth, 
Art  thou  to  me, 
Sweet  Melancholy ! 


CONTENTMENT. 

GLAD  hours  have  been  when  I  have  seen 

Life's  scope  and  each  dry  day's  intent 
United ;  so  that  I  could  stand 
In  silence,  covering  with  my  hand 
The  circle  of  the  universe, 
Balance  the  blessing  and  the  curse, 
And  trust  in  deeds  without  chagrin, 
Free  from  to-morrow  and  yesterday  —  content. 


PART   FIRST. 


AN   APRIL   ARIA. 

WHEN  the  mornings  dankly  fall 
With  a  dim  forethought  of  rain, 
And  the  robins  richly  call 
To  their  mates  mercurial, 

And  the  tree-boughs  creak  and  strain 

In  the  wind  ; 
When  the  river  's  rough  with  foam, 

And  the  new-made  clearings  smoke, 
And  the  clouds  that  go  and  come 
Shine  and  darken  frolicsome, 
And  the  frogs  at  evening  croak 

Undefined 
Mysteries  of  monotone  , 

And  by  melting  beds  of  snow 
Wind-flowers  blossom  all  alone  ; 

Then  I  know 
That  the  bitter  winter's  dead. 

Over  his  head 
The  damp  sod  breaks  so  mellow, — 


24  AN  APRIL  ARIA. 

Its  mosses  tipped  with  points  of  yellow,  — 

I  cannot  but  be  glad  ; 
Yet  this  sweet  mood  will  borrow 
Something  of  a  sweeter  sorrow, 

To  touch  and  turn  me  sad. 


THE   BOBOLINK. 

How  sweetly  sang  the  bobolink, 

When  thou,  my  Love,  wast  nigh  ! 
His  liquid  music  from  the  brink 
Of  some  cloud-fountain  seemed  to  sink, 
Built  in  the  blue-domed  sky. 

How  sadly  sings  the  bobolink  ! 

No  more  my  Love  is  nigh : 
Yet  rise,  my  spirit,  rise,  and  drink 
Once  more  from  that  cloud-fountain's  brink, 

Once  more  before  I  die  ! 


THE   SUN-SHOWER. 

A  PENCILED  shade  the  sky  doth  sweep, 
And  transient  glooms  creep  in  to  sleep 

Amid  the  orchard ; 
Fantastic  breezes  pull  the  trees 
Hither  and  yon,  to  vagaries 

Of  aspect  tortured. 

Then,  like  the  downcast  dreamy  fringe 
Of  eyelids,  when  dim  gates  unhinge 

That  locked  their  tears, 
Falls  on  the  hills  a  mist  of  rain,  — 
So  faint,  it  seems  to  fade  again  ; 

Yet  swiftly  nears. 

Now  sparkles  the  air,  all  steely-bright, 
With  drops  swept  down  in  arrow-flight, 

Keen,  quivering  lines. 
Ceased  in  a  breath  the  showery  sound  ; 
And  teasingly,  now,  as  I  look  around, 

Sweet  sunlight  shines  ! 


JUNE  LONGINGS. 

Lo,  all  about  the  lofty  blue  are  blown 

Light  vapors  white,  like  thistle-down, 

That  from  their  softened  silver  heaps  opaque 

Scatter  delicate  flake  by  flake, 

Upon  the  wide  loom  of  the  heavens  weaving 

Forms  of  fancies  past  believing, 

And,  with  fantastic  show  of  mute  despair, 

As  for  some  sweet  hope  hurt  beyond  repair, 

Melt  in  the  silent  voids  of  sunny  air. 

All  day  the  cooing  brooklet  runs  in  tune  : 

Half  sunk  i'  th'  blue,  the  powdery  moon 

Shows  whitely.      Hark,    the    bobolink's   note !     I 

hear  it, 

Far  and  faint  as  a  fairy  spirit ! 

Yet  all  these  pass,  and  as  some  blithe  bird,  wing- 
ing, 

Leaves  a  heart-ache  for  his  singing, 
A  frustrate  passion  haunts  me  evermore 
For  that  which  closest  dwells  to  beauty's  core. 
O  Love,  canst  thou  this  heart  of  hope  restore  ? 


A   RUNE  OF  THE   RAIN. 

i. 

O  MANY-TONED  rain  ! 

O  myriad  sweet  voices  of  the  rain  ! 

How  welcome  is  its  delicate  overture 

At  evening,  when  the  glowing-moistur'd  west 

Seals  all  things  with  cool  promise  of  night's  rest ! 

At  first  it  would  allure 

The  earth  to  kinder  mood, 

With  dainty  flattering 

Of  soft,  sweet  pattering  : 

Faintly  now  you  hear  the  tramp 

Of  the  fine  drops  falling  damp          • 

On  the  dry,  sun-seasoned  ground 

And  the  thirsty  leaves  around. 

But  anon,  imbued 

With  a  sudden,  bounding  access 

Of  passion,  it  relaxes 

All  timider  persuasion, 


A   RUNE   OF   THE  RAIN.  29 

And,  with  nor  pretext  nor  occasion, 

Its  wooing  redoubles  ; 

And  pounds  the  ground,  and  bubbles 

In  sputtering  spray, 

Flinging  itself  in  a  fury 

Of  flashing  white  away  ; 

Till  the  dusty  road 

Flings  a  perfume  dank  abroad, 

And  the  grass,  and  the  wide-hung  trees, 

The  vines,  the  flowers  in  their  beds, 

The  vivid  corn  that  to  the  breeze 

Rustles  along  the  garden-rows, 

Visibly  lift  their  heads,  — 

And,  as  the  shower  wilder  grows, 

Upleap  with  answering  kisses  to  the  rain. 

Then,  the  slow  and  pleasant  murmur 

Of  its  subsiding, 

As  the  pulse  of  the  storm  beats  firmer, 

And  the  steady  rain 

Drops  into  a  cadenced  chiding. 

Deep-breathing  rain, 

The  sad  and  ghostly  noise 

Wherewith  thou  dost  complain,  — • 

Thy  plaintive,  spiritual  voice,    • 


30  A   RUNE   OF  THE  RAIN. 

Heard  thus  at  close  of  day 

Through  vaults  of  twilight-gray,  — 

Doth  vex  me  with  sweet  pain  ! 

And  still  my  soul  is  fain 

To  know  the  secret  of  that  yearning 

Which  in  thine  utterance  I  hear  returning. 

Hush,  oh  hush  ! 

Break  not  the  dreamy  rush 

Of  the  rain  : 

Touch  not  the  marring  doubt 

Words  bring,  to  the  certainty 

Of  its  soft  refrain, 

But  let  the  flying  fringes  flout 

Their  gouts  against  the  pane, 

And  the  gurgling  throat  of  the  water-spout 

Groan  in  the  eaves  amain. 

The  earth  is  wedded  to  the  shower. 

Darkness  and  awe,  gird  round  the  bridal-hour  ! 

n. 

O  many-toned  rain  ! 
It  hath  caught  the  strain 
Of  a  wilder  tune, 


A  RUNE   OF  THE  RAIN.  31 

Ere  the  same  night's  noon, 

When  dreams  and  sleep  forsake  me, 

And  sudden  dread  doth  wake  me, 

To  hear  the  booming  drums  of  heaven  beat 

The  long  roll  to  battle  ;  when  the  knotted  cloud, 

With  an  echoing  loud, 

Bursts  asunder 

At  the  sudden  resurrection  of  the  thunder  ; 

And  the  fountains  of  the  air, 

Unsealed  again  sweep,  ruining,  everywhere, 

To  wrap  the  world  in  a  watery  winding-sheet. 

in. 

O  myriad  sweet  voices  of  the  rain  ! 
When  the  airy  war  doth  wane, 
And  the  storm  to  the  east  hath  flown, 
Cloaked  close  in  the  whirling  wind, 
There  's  a  voice  still  left  behind 
In  each  heavy-hearted  tree, 
Charged  with  tearful  memory 
Of  the  vanished  rain  : 
From  their  leafy  lashes  wet 
Drip  the  dews  of  fresh  regret 
For  the  lover  that 's  gone  ! 


32  A   RUNE   OF   THE  RAIN. 

All  else  is  still. 

But  the  stars  are  listening ; 

And  low  o'er  the  wooded  hill 

Hangs,  upon  listless  wing 

Outspread,  a  shape  of  damp,  blue  cloud, 

Watching,  like  a  bird  of  evil 

That  knows  no  mercy  nor  reprieval, 

The  slow  and  silent  death  of  the  pallid  moon. 

IV. 

But  soon,  returning  duly, 
Dawn  whitens  the  wet  hill-tops  bluely. 
To  her  vision  pure  and  cold 
The  night's  wild  tale  is  told 
On  the  glistening  leaf,  in  the  mid-road  pool, 
The  garden  mold  turned  dark  and  cool, 
And  the  meadow's  trampled  acres. 
But  hark,  how  fresh  the  song  of  the  winged  music- 
makers  ! 

For  now  the  meanings  bitter, 
Left  by  the  rain,  make  harmony 
With  the  swallow's  matin-twitter, 
And  the  robin's  note,  like  the  wind's  in  a  tree  : 


A    RUNE   OF  THE  RAIN.  33 

The  infant  morning  breathes  sweet  breath, 
And  with  it  is  blent 
The  wistful,  wild,  moist  scent 

Of  the  grass  in  the  marsh  which  the  sea  nourisheth  : 
And  behold ! 

The  last  reluctant  drop  of  the  storm, 
Wrung  from  the  roof,  is  smitten  warm 
And  turned  to  gold  ; 
For  in  its  veins  doth  run 
The  very  blood  of  the  bold,  unsullied  sun  ! 
3 


THE  SONG-SPARROW. 

GLIMMERS  gray  the  leafless  thicket 

Close  beside  my  garden  gate, 
Where,  so  light,  from  post  to  picket 
Hops  the  sparrow,  blithe,  sedate  ; 
Who,  with  meekly  folded  wing, 
Comes  to  sun  himself  and  sing. 

It  was  there,  perhaps,  last  year, 
That  his  little  house  he  built ; 
For  he  seems  to  perk  and  peer, 
And  to  twitter,  too,  and  tilt 
The  bare  branches  in  between, 
With  a  fond,  familiar  mien. 

Once,  I  know,  there  was  a  nest, 

Held  there  by  the  sideward  thrust 
Of  those  twigs  that  touch  his  breast ; 

Though  't  is  gone  now.      Some  rude  gust 
Caught  it,  over-full  of  snow,  — 
Bent  the  bush,  —  and  robbed  it  so. 


THE  SONG-SPARROW.  35 

Thus  our  highest  holds  are  lost, 
By  the  ruthless  winter's  wind, 
When,  with  swift-dismantling  frost, 
The  green  woods  we  dwelt  in,  thinn'd 
Of  their  leafage,  grow  too  cold 
For  frail  hopes  of  summer's  mold. 

But  if  we,  with  spring-days  mellow, 

Wake  to  woeful  wrecks  of  change, 
And  the  sparrow's  ritornello 

Scaling  still  its  old  sweet  range ; 
Can  we  do  a  better  thing 
Than,  with  him,  still  build  and  sing  ? 

Oh,  my  sparrow,  thou  dost  breed 

Thought  in  me  beyond  all  telling.; 
Shootest  through  me  sunlight,  seed, 
And  fruitful  blessing,  with  that  welling 
Ripple  of  ecstatic  rest, 
Gurgling  ever  from  thy  breast ! 

And  thy  breezy  carol  spurs 

Vital  motion  in  my  blood, 
Such  as  in  the  sapwood  stirs, 

Swells  and  shapes  the  pointed  bud 


36    '  THE  SONG-SPARROW. 

Of  the  lilac  ;  and  besets 

The  hollows  thick  with  violets. 

Yet  I  know  not  any  charm 

That  can  make  the  fleeting  time 
Of  thy  sylvan,  faint  alarm 
Suit  itself  to  human  rhyme  : 

And  my  yearning  rhythmic  word 
Does  thee  grievous  wrong,  dear  bird. 

So,  however  thou  hast  wrought 

This  wild  joy  on  heart  and  brain, 
It  is  better  left  untaught. 

Take  thou  up  the  song  again  : 
There  is  nothing  sad  afloat 
On  the  tide  that  swells  thy  throat ! 


FAIRHAVEN    BAY. 

I  PUSH  on  through  the  shaggy  wood, 
I  round  the  hill :  't  is  here  it  stood ; 
And  there,  beyond  the  crumbled  walls, 
The  shining  Concord  slowly  crawls, 

Yet  seems  to  make  a  passing  stay, 
And  gently  spreads  its  lilied  bay, 
Curbed  by  this  green  and  reedy  shore, 
Up  toward  the  ancient  homestead's  door. 

But  dumbly  sits  the  shattered  house, 
And  makes  no  answer  :  man  and  mouse 
Long  since  forsook  it,  and  decay 
Chokes  its  deep  heart  with  ashes  gray. 

On  what  was  once  a  garden-ground 
Dull  red-bloomed  sorrels  now  abound  ; 
And  boldly  whistles  the  shy  quail 
Within  the  vacant  pasture's  pale. 


38  FAIRHAVEN  BAY. 

Ah,  strange  and  savage,  where  he  shines, 
The  sun  seems  staring  through  those  pines 
That  once  the  vanished  home  could  bless 
With  intimate,  sweet  loneliness. 

The  ignorant,  elastic  sod 

The  feet  of  them  that  daily  trod 

Its  roods  hath  utterly  forgot : 

The  very  fire-place  knows  them  not. 

For,  in  the  weedy  cellar,  thick 

The  ruined  chimney's  mass  of  brick 

Lies  strown.     Wide  heaven,  with  such  an  ease 

Dost  thou,  too,  lose  the  thought  of  these  ? 

Yet  I,  although  I  know  not  who 
Lived  here,  in  years  that  voiceless  grew 
Ere  I  was  born,  —  and  never  can,  — 
Am  moved,  because  I  am  a  man. 

Oh  glorious  gift  of  brotherhood  ! 

Oh  sweet  elixir  in  the  blood, 

That  makes  us  live  with  those  long-  dead 

O 

Or  hope  for  those  that  shall  be  bred 


FAIRHAVEN  BAY.  39 

Hereafter  !     No  regret  can  rob 
My  heart  of  this  delicious  throb  ; 
No  thought  of  fortunes  haply  wrecked, 
Nor  pang  for  nature's  wild  neglect. 

And,  though  the  hearth  be  cracked  and  cold, 
Though  ruin  all  the  place  enfold, 
'These  ashes  that  have  lost  their  name 
Shall  warm  my  life  with  lasting  flame ! 


CHANT   FOR  AUTUMN. 

VEILED  in  visionary  haze, 
Behold,  the  ethereal  autumn  days 

Draw  near  again ! 

In  broad  array, 
With  a  low,  laborious  hum 
These  ministers  of  plenty  come, 
That  seem  to  linger,  while  they  steal  away. 

O  strange,  sweet  charm 

Of  peaceful  pain, 

When  yonder  mountain's  bended  arm 
Seems  wafting  o'er  the  harvest-plain 
A  message  to  the  heart  that  grieves, 
And  round  us,  here,  a  sad-hued  rain 
Of  leaves  that  loosen  without  number 
Showering  falls  in  yellow,  umber, 
Red,  or  russet,  'thwart  the  stream  ! 
Now  pale  Sorrow  shall  encumber 
All  too  soon  these  lands,  I  deem  ; 


CHANT  FOR  AUTUMN.  41 

Yet  who  at  heart  believes 

The  autumn,  a  false  friend, 

Can  bring  us_  fatal  harm  ? 
Ah,  mist-hung  avenues  in  dream 
Not  more  uncertainly  extend 

Than  the  season  that  receives 

A  summer's  latest  gleam  ! 

But  the  days  of  death  advance  : 

They  tarry  not,  nor  turn  ! 
I  will  gather  the  ashes  of  summer 

In  my  heart,  as  an  urn. 

Oh  draw  thou  nearer, 

Thou 

Spirit  of  the  distant  height, 
Whither  now  that  slender  flight 
Of  swallows,  winging,  guides  my  sight ! 

The  hill  doth  seem  to  me 

A  fading  memory 
Of  long  delight, 

And  in  its  distant  blue 

Half-hideth  from  my  view 
This  shrinking  season  that  must  now  retire ; 
And  so  shall  hold  it,  hopeful,  a  desire 


42  CHANT  FOR  AUTUMN. 

And  knowledge  old  as  night  and  always  new. 
Draw  nigher !     And,  with  bended  brow, 
I  will  be  thy  reverer 
Through  the  long  winter's  term  ! 

So,  when  the  snows  hold  firm, 

And  the  brook  is  dumb  ; 

When  sharp  winds  come 
To  flay  the  hill-tops  bleak, 
And  whistle  down  the  creek  ; 

While  the  unhappy  worm 
Crawls  deeper  down  into  the  ground, 
To  'scape  Frost's  jailer  on  his  round  ; 

Thy  form  to  me  shall  speak 

From  the  wide  valley's  bound, 
Recall  the  waving  of  the  last  bird's  wing, 

And  help  me  hope  for  spring. 


BEFORE  THE   SNOW. 

AUTUMN  is  gone  :  through  the  blue  woodlands  bare 
Shatters  the  windy  rain.     A  thousand  leaves, 

Like  birds  that  fly  the  mournful  Northern  air, 
Flutter  away  from  the  old  forest's  eaves. 

Autumn  is  gone  :  as  yonder  silent  rill, 

Slow  eddying  o'er  thick  leaf-heaps  lately  shed, 

My  spirit,  as  I  walk,  moves  awed  and  still, 
By  thronging  fancies  wild  and  wistful  led. 

Autumn  is  gone :  alas,  how  long  ago 

The  grapes  were  plucked,  and  garnered  was  the 

grain ! 
How  soon  death  settles  on  us,  and  the  snow 

Wraps  with  its  white  alike  our  graves,  our  gain  ! 

Yea,  autumn  's  gone !     Yet  it  robs  not  my  mood 
Of  that  which  makes  moods  dear,  —  some  shoot 
of  spring 


44  BEFORE    THE  SNOW. 

Still  sweet  within  me ;  or  thoughts  of  yonder  wood 
We  walked  in,  —  memory's  rare  environing. 

And,  though  they  die,  the  seasons  only  take 
A  ruined  substance.     All  that 's  best  remains 

In  the  essential  vision  that  can  make 

One  light  for  life,  love,  death,  their  joys,  their 
pai-is. 


THE  GHOSTS   OF  GROWTH. 

LAST  night  it  snowed ;  and  Nature  fell  asleep. 
Forest  and  field  lie  tranced  in  gracious  dreams 
Of  growth,  for  ghosts  of  leaves  long  dead,  me- 

seems, 

Hover  about  the  boughs ;  and  wild  winds  sweep 
O'er  whitened  fields  full  many  a  hoary  heap 

From    the    storm-harvest    mown    by   ice-bound 

streams  ! 
With   beauty  of   crushed   clouds  the  cold  earth 

teems, 
And  winter  a  tranquil-seeming  truce  would  keep. 

But  such  ethereal  slumber  may  not  bide 

The  ascending  sun's  bright  scorn  —  not  long,  I 
fear  ; 

And  all  its  visions  on  the  golden  tide 
Of  mid-noon  gliding  off,  must  disappear. 

Fair  dreams,  farewell !     So  in  life's  stir  and  pride 
You  fade,  and  leave  the  treasure  of  a  tear  ! 


THE  LILY-POND. 

SOME  fairy  spirit  with  his  wand, 
I  think,  has  hovered  o'er  the  dell, 

And  spread  this  film  upon  the  pond, 
And  touched  it  with  this  drowsy  spell. 

For  here  the  musing  soul  is  merged 
In  moods  no  other  scene  can  bring, 

And  sweeter  seems  the  air  when  scourged 
With  wandering  wild-bees'  murmuring. 

One  ripple  streaks  the  little  lake, 
Sharp  purple-blue  ;  the  birches,  thin 

And  silvery,  crowd  the  edge,  yet  break 
To  let  a  straying  sunbeam  in. 

How  came  we  through  the  yielding  wood, 
That  day,  to  this  sweet-rustling  shore  ? 

Oh,  there  together  while  we  stood, 
A  butterfly  was  wafted  o'er, 


THE  LILY-POND.  47 

In  sleepy  light ;  and  even  now 

His  glimmering  beauty  doth  return 

Upon  me,  when  the  soft  winds  blow, 
And  lilies  toward  the  sunlight  yearn. 

The  yielding  wood  ?     And  yet  't  was  loth 
To  yield  unto  our  happy  march  ; 

Doubtful  it  seemed,  at  times,  if  both 
Could  pass  its  green,  elastic  arch. 

Yet  there,  at  last,  upon  the  marge 

We  found  ourselves,  and  there,  behold, 

In  hosts  the  lilies,  white  and  large, 
Lay  close,  with  hearts  of  downy  gold  ! 

Deep  in  the  weedy  waters  spread 
The  rootlets  of  the  placid  bloom  : 

So  sprung  my  love's  flower,  that  was  bred 
In  deep,  still  waters  of  heart's-gloom. 

So  sprung  ;  and  so  that  morn  was  nursed 

To  live  in  light,  and  on  the  pool 
Wherein  its  roots  were  deep  immersed 

Burst  into  beauty  broad  and  cool. 


48  THE  LILY-POND. 

Few  words  were  said  ;  a  moment  passed  ; 

I  know  not  how  it  came  —  that  awe 
And  ardor  of  a  glance  that  cast 

Our  love  in  universal  law  ! 

But  all  at  once  a  bird  sang  loud, 

From  dead  twigs  of  the  gleamy  beech  ; 

His  notes  dropped  dewy,  as  out  of  a  cloud, 
A  blessing  on  our  married  speech. 

Ah,  Love  !  how  fresh  and  rare,  even  now, 
That  moment  and  that  mood  return 

Upon  me,  when  the  soft  winds  blow, 
And  lilies  toward  the  sunlight  yearn  ! 


PART   SECOND. 


A 


FIRST  GLANCE. 

BUDDING  mouth  and  warm  blue  eyes; 

A  laughing  face  ;  —  and  laughing  hair, 
So  ruddy  does  it  rise 
From  off  that  forehead  fair ; 


Frank  fervor  in  whate'er  she  said, 
And  a  shy  grace  when  she  was  still ; 

A  bright,  elastic  tread ; 

Enthusiastic  will ; 

These  wrought  the  magic  of  a  maid 
As  sweet  and  sad  as  the  sun  in  spring, 
Joyous,  yet  half-afraid 
Her  joyousness  to  sing. 

What  weighs  the  unworthiness  of  earth 
When  beauty  such  as  this  finds  birth  ? 
Rare  maid,  to  look  on  thee 
Gives  all  things  harmony  ! 


"THE   SUNSHINE   OF  THINE   EYES." 

THE  sunshine  of  thine  eyes, 

(Oh  still,  celestial  beam !) 
Whatever  it  touches  it  fills 

With  the  life  of  its  lambent  gleam. 

The  sunshine  of  thine  eyes, 

Oh  let  it  fall  on  me  ! 
Though  I  be  but  a  mote  of  the  air, 

I  could  turn  to  gold  for  thee  ! 


"WHEN,   LOOKING    DEEPLY    IN    THY 
FACE." 

WHEN,  looking  deeply  in  thy  face, 

I  catch  the  undergleam  of  grace 

That  grows  beneath  the  outward  glance, 

Long  looking,  lost  as  in  a  trance 

Of  long  desires  that  fleet  and  meet 

Around  me  like  the  fresh  and  sweet 

White  showers  of  rain  which,  vanishing, 

'Neath  heaven's  blue  arches  whirl,  in  spring  ; 

Suddenly  then  I  seem  to  know 

Of  some  new  fountain's  overflow 

In  grassy  basins,  with  a  sound 

That  leads  my  fancy,  past  all  bound, 

Into  a  region  of  retreat 

From  this  my  life's  bewildered  heat. 

Oh  if  my  soul  might  always  draw 

From  those  deep  fountains  full  of  awe, 

The  current  of  my  days  should  rise 

Unto  the  level  of  thine  eyes  ! 


WITHIN   A   YEAR. 

i. 

LIPS  that  are  met  in  love's 

Devotion  sweet, 

While  parting  lovers  passionately  greet, 
And   earth  through   heaven's    arc   more   swiftly 

moves  — 

Oh,  will  they  be  less  dear 
Within  a  year  ? 

II. 

Eyes  in  whose  shadow-spell 

Far  off  I  read 

That  which  to  lovers  taking  loving  heed 
Dear  women's  eyes  full  soon  and  plainly  tell  — 

Oh,  will  you  give  such  cheer 

This  time  a  year  ? 

HI. 

Behold  !  the  dark  year  goes, 
Nor  will  reveal 


WITHIN  A    YEAR.  55 

Aught  of  its  purpose,  if  for  woe  or  weal, 
Swift  as  a  stream  that  o'er  the  mill-weir  flows  : 

Mayhap  the  end  draws  near 

Within  the  year ! 

IV. 

Yet,  darling,  once  more  touch 

Those  lips  to  mine. 
Set  on  my  life  that  talisman  divine  ; 
Absence,  new  friends,  I  fear  not  overmuch  — 

Even  Death,  should  he  appear 

Within  the  year ! 


THE   SINGING  WIRE. 

HAR£  to  that  faint,  ethereal  twang 
That  from  the  bosom  of  the  breeze 

Has  caught  its  rise  and  fall :  there  rang 
^Eolian  harmonies  ! 

I  looked  ;  again  the  mournful  chords, 
In  random  rhythm  lightly  flung 

From  off  the  wire,  came  shaped  in  words ; 
And  thus,  meseemed,  they  sung : 

"  I,  messenger  of  many  fates, 

Strung  to  the  tones  of  woe  or  weal, 
Fine  nerve  that  thrills  and  palpitates 
With  all  men  know  or  feel,  — 

"  Oh,  is  it  strange  that  I  should  wail  ? 
Leave  me  my  tearless,  sad  refrain, 
When  in  the  pine-top  wakes  the  gale 
That  breathes  of  coming  rain. 


THE  SINGING    WIRE.  57 

"  There  is  a  spirit  in  the  post ; 

It,  too,  was  once  a  murmuring  tree  ; 
Its  sapless,  sad,  and  withered  ghost 
Echoes  my  melody. 

"  Come  close,  and  lay  your  listening  ear 

Against  the  bare  and  branchless  wood. 
Say,  croons  it  not,  so  low  and  clear, 
As  if  it  understood  ?  " 

I  listened  to  the  branchless  pole 
That  held  aloft  the  singing  wire  ; 

I  heard  its  muffled  music  roll, 
And  stirred  with  sweet  desire  : 

"  O  wire  more  soft  than  seasoned  lute, 
Hast  thou  no  sunlit  word  for  me  ? 
Though  long  to  me  so  coyly  mute, 
Sure  she  may  speak  through  thee  !  " 

I  listened  ;  but  it  was  in  vain. 

At  first,  the  wind's  old,  wayward  will 
Drew  forth  the  tearless,  sad  refrain  : 

That  ceased,  and  all  was  still. 


58  THE  SINGING    WIRE. 

But  suddenly  some  kindling  shock 

Struck  flashing  through  the   wire  :  a  bird, 

Poised  on  it,  screamed  and  flew  ;  the  flock 
Rose  with  him,  wheeled,  and  whirred. 

Then  to  my  soul  there  came  this  sense : 
"  Her  heart  has  answered  unto  thine  ; 

She  comes,  to-night.     Go,  hie  thee  hence ! 
Meet  her  :  no  more  repine  !  " 

Mayhap  the  fancy  was  far-fetched  ; 

And  yet,  mayhap,  it  hinted  true. 
Ere  moonrise,  Love,  a  hand  was  stretched 

In  mine,  that  gave  me  —  you  ! 

And  so  more  dear  to  me  has  grown, 
Than  rarest  tones  swept  from  the  lyre, 

The  minor-movement  of  that  moan 
In  yonder  singing  wire. 

Nor  care  I  for  the  will  of  states. 
• 

Or  aught  besides,  that  smites  that  string, 
Since  then  so  close  it  knit  our  fates, 
What  time  the  bird  took  wing ! 


MOODS  OF  LOVE. 


IN  ABSENCE. 

MY  love  for  thee  is  like  a  winged  seed 

Blown  from  the  heart  of  thy  rare  beauty's  flower, 
And  deftly  guided  by  some  breezy  power 

To  fall  and  rest,  where  I  should  never  heed, 

In  deepest  caves  of  memory.     There,  indeed, 
With  virtue  rife  of  many  a  sunny  hour,  — 
Ev'n  making  cold  neglect  and  darkness  dower 

Its  roots  with  life,  —  swiftly  it  'gan  to  breed, 

Till  now  wide-branching  tendrils  it  outspreads 
Like  circling  arms,  to  prison  its  own  prison, 

Fretting  the  walls  with  blooms  by  myriads, 

And  blazoning  in  my  brain  full  summer-season  : 

Thy  face,  whose  dearness  presence  had  not  taught. 

In  absence  multiplies,  and  fills  all  thought. 


60  MOODS  OF  LOVE. 


II. 
HEART'S   FOUNTAIN. 

Her  moods  are  like  the  fountain's,  changing  ever, 
That  spouts  aloft  a  sudden,  watery  dome, 
Only  to  fall  again  in  shattering  foam, 

Just  where  the  wedded  jets  themselves  dissever, 

And  palpitating  downward,  downward  quiver, 
Unfolded  like  a  swift  ethereal  flower, 
That  sheds  white  petals  in  a  blinding  shower, 

And  straightway  soars  anew  with  blithe  endeavor. 

The  sun  may  kindle  it  with  healthful  fire  ; 

Upon  it  falls  the  cloud-gray's  leaden  load ; 
At  night  the  stars  shall  haunt  the  whirling  spire  : 

Yet  these  have  but  a  transient  garb  bestowed. 
So  her  glad  life,  whate'er  the  hours  impart, 
Plays  still  'twixt  heaven's  cope  and  her  own  clear 
heart. 


MOODS  OF  LOVE.  6 1 


III. 
SOUTH-WIND  SONG. 

Soft-throated  South,  breathing  of  summer's  ease 
(Sweet  breath,  whereof  the  violet's  life  is  made  !) 
Through  lips  moist-warm,  as  thou  hadst  lately 

stayed 

'Mong  rosebuds,  wooing  to  the  cheeks  of  these 
Loth  blushes  faint  and  maidenly  —  rich  Breeze, 
Still  doth  thy  honeyed  blowing  bring  a  shade 
Of  sad  foreboding.     In  thy  hand  is  laid 
The  power  to  build  or  blight  rich  fruit  of  trees, 
The  deep,   cool  grass,  and  field  of  thick-combed 
grain. 

Even  so  my  Love  may  bring  me  joy  or  woe, 
Both  measureless,  but  either  counted  gain 

Since  given  by  her.     For  pain  and  pleasure  flow 
Like  tides  upon  us  of  the  self-same  sea. 
Tears  are  the  gems  of  joy  and  misery ! 


62  MOODS     OF  LOVE. 


IV. 
THE  LOVER'S  YEAR 

Thou  art  my  morning,  twilight,  noon,  and  eve, 
My  Summer  and  my  Winter,  Spring  and  Fall ; 
For  Nature  left  on  thee  a  touch  of  all 

The  moods  that  come  to  gladden  or  to  grieve 

The  heart  of  Time,  with  purpose  to  relieve 
From  lagging  sameness.     So  do  these  forestall 
In  thee  such  o'erheaped  sweetnesses  as  pall 

Too  swiftly,  and  the  taster  tasteless  leave. 

Scenes  that  I  love  to  me  always  remain 
Beautiful,  whether  under  summer's  sun 

Beheld,  or,  storm-dark,  stricken  across  with  rain. 
So,  through  all  humors,  thou  'rt  the  same  sweet 
one: 

Doubt  not  I  love  thee  well  in  each,  who  see 

Thy  constant  change  is  changeful  constancy. 


MOODS  OF  LOISE.  63 


V. 
NEW  WORLDS. 

With  my  beloved  I  lingered  late  one  night. 

At  last  the  hour  when  I  must  leave  her  came  : 

But,  as  I  turned,  a  fear  I  could  not  name 
Possessed  me  that  the  long  sweet  evening  might 
Prelude  some  sudden  storm,  whereby  delight 

Should  perish.    What  if  Death,  ere  dawn,  should 
claim 

One  of  us  ?     What,  though  living,  not  the  same 
Each  should  appear  to  each  in  morning-light  ? 

Changed  did  I  find  her,  truly,  the  next  day : 
Ne'er  could  I  see  her  as  of  old  again. 

That  strange  mood  seemed  to  draw  a  cloud  away, 
And  let  her  beauty  pour  through  every  vein 

Sunlight  and  life,  part  of  me.     Thus  the  lover 

With  each  new  morn  a  new  world  may  discover. 


64  MOODS  OF  LOVE. 


VI. 

WEDDING-NIGHT. 

At  night,  with  shaded  eyes,  the  summer  moon 
In  tender  meditation  downward  glances 
At  the  dark  earth,  far-set  in  dim  expanses, 

And,  welcomer  than  blazoned  gold  of  noon, 

Down  through  the  air  her  steady  lights  are  strewn. 
The  breezy  forests  sigh  in  moonlit  trances, 
And  the  full-hearted  poet,  waking,  fancies 

The  smiling  hills  will  break  in  laughter  soon. 

Oh  thus,  thou  gentle  Nature,  dost  thou  shine 
On  me  to-night.     My  very  limbs  would  melt, 

Like  rugged  earth  beneath  yon  ray  divine, 
Into  faint  semblance  of  what  they  have  felt : 

Thine  eye  doth  color  me,  O  wife,  O  mine, 

With  peace  that  in  thy  spirit  long  hath  dwelt ! 


LOVE'S   DEFEAT. 

A  THOUSAND  times  I  would  have  hoped, 
A  thousand  times  protested  ; 

But  still,  as  through  the  night  I  groped, 
My  torch  from  me  was  wrested, 
And  wrested. 

How  often  with  a  succoring  cup 

Unto  the  hurt  I  hasted  ! 
The  wounded  died  ere  I  came  up ; 

My  cup  was  still  untasted,  — 
Untasted. 

Of  darkness,  wounds,  and  harsh  disdain 

Endured,  I  ne'er  repented. 
'T  is  not  of  these  I  would  complain  : 
With  these  I  were  contented,  — 

Contented. 
5 


66  LOVE'S  DEFEAT. 

Here  lies  the  misery,  to  feel 
No  work  of  love  completed  ;  . 

In  prayerless  passion  still  to  kneel, 
And  mourn,  and  cry  :  "  Defeated  — 
Defeated !  " 


MAY   AND   MARRIAGE. 

THE    LOVER    WHO   THINKS. 

DOST  thou  remember,  Love,  those  hours 

Shot  o'er  with  random  rainy  showers, 

When  the  bold  sun  would  woo  coy  May  ? 

She  smiled,  then  wept  —  and  looked  another  way. 

We,  learning  from  the  sun  and  season, 

Together  plotted  joyous  treason 

'Gainst  maiden  majesty,  to  give 

Each  other  troth,  and  henceforth  wedded  live. 

But  love,  ah,  love  we  know  is  blind  ! 
Not  always  what  they  seek  they  find 
When,  groping  through  dim-lighted  natures, 
Fond  lovers  look  for  old,  ideal  statures. 

What  then  ?     Is  all  our  purpose  lost  ? 

The  balance  broken,  since  Fate  tossed 

Uneven  weights  ?     Oh  well  beware 

That  thought,  my  sweet :  't  were  neither  fit  nor  fair  ! 


68  MAY  AND  MARRIAGE. 

Seek  not  for  any  grafted  fruits 

From  souls  so  wedded  at  the  roots  ; 

But  whatsoe'er  our  fibres  hold, 

Let  that  grow  forth  in  mutual,  ample  mold  ! 

No  sap  can  circle  without  flaw 
Into  the  perfect  sphere  we  saw 
Hanging  before  our  happy  eyes 
Amid  the  shade  of  marriage-mysteries  ; 

But  all  that  in  the  heart  doth  lurk 

Must  toward  the  mystic  shaping  work  : 

Sweet  fruit  and  bitter  both  must  fall 

When  the  boughs  bend,  at  each  year's  autumn-call. 

Ah,  dear  defect !  that  aye  shall  lift 

Us  higher,  not  through  craven  shift 

Of  fault  on  common  frailty  ;  —  nay, 

But  twofold  hope  to  help  with  generous  stay  ! 

I  shall  be  nearer,  understood  : 

More  prized  art  thou  than  perfect  good.. 

And  since  thou  lov'st  me,  I  shall  grow 

Thy  other  self  —  thy  Life,  thy  Joy,  thy  Woe  ! 


THE   FISHER  OF  THE  CAPE. 

AT  morn  his  bark  like  a  bird 

Slips  lightly  oceanward  — 

Sail  feathering  smooth  o'er  the  bay 

And  beak  that  drinks  the  wild  spray. 

In  his  eyes  beams  cheerily 

A  light  like  the  sun's  on  the  sea, 

As  he  watches  the  waning  strand, 

Where  the  foam,  like  a  waving  hand 

Of  one  who  mutely  would  tell 

Her  love,  flutters  faintly,  "  Farewell." 

But  at  night,  when  the  winds  arise 

And  pipe  to  driving  skies, 

And  the  moon  peers,  half  afraid, 

Through  the  storm-cloud's  ragged  shade, 

He  hears  her  voice  in  the  blast 

That  sighs  about  the  mast, 

He  sees  her  face  in  the  clouds 

As  he  climbs  the  whistling  shrouds  ; 

And  a  power  nerves  his  hand, 

Shall  bring  the  bark  to  land. 


SAILOR'S   SONG. 

THE  sea  goes  up ;  the  sky  comes  down. 
Oh,  can  you  spy  the  ancient  town,  — 
The  granite  hills  so  hard  and  gray, 
That  rib  the  land  behind  the  bay  ? 

O  ye  ho,  boys  !     Spread  her  wings  ! 

Fair  winds,  boys  :  send  her  home  ! 
O  ye  ho  ! 

Three  years  ?     Is  it  so  long  that  we 

Have  lived  upon  the  lonely  sea  ? 

Oh,  often  I  thought  we  'd  see  the  town, 

When  the  sea  went  up,  and  the  sky  came  down. 

O  ye  ho,  boys  !     Spread  her  wings  ! 

Fair  winds,  boys  :  send  her  home  ! 
O  ye  ho  ! 

Even  the  winter  winds  would  rouse 
A  memory  of  my  father's  house  ; 


SAILOR'S  SONG.  /I 

For  round  his  windows  and  his  door 
They  made  the  same  deep,  mouthless  roar. 

O  ye  ho,  boys  !     Spread  her  wings  ! 

Fair  winds,  boys  :  send  her  home  ! 
O  ye  ho  ! 

And  when  the  summer's  breezes  beat, 
Methought  I  saw  the  sunny  street 
Where  stood  my  Kate.     Beneath  her  hand 
She  gazed  far  out,  far  out  from  land. 

O  ye  ho,  boys  !     Spread  her  wings  ! 

Fair  winds,  boys  :  send  her  home  ! 
O  ye  ho  ! 

Farthest  away,  I  oftenest  dreamed 
That  1  was  with  her.     Then,  it  seemed 
A  single  stride  the  ocean  wide 
Had  bridged,  and  brought  me  to  her  side. 

O  ye  ho,  boys  !     Spread  her  wings  ! 

Fair  winds,  boys  :  send  her  home. 
O  ye  ho  ! 

But  though  so  near  we  're  drawing,  now, 
'T  is  farther  off  —  I  know  not  how. 


72  SAILOR'S  SONG. 

We  sail  and  sail :  we  see  no  home. 
Would  we  into  the  port  were  come  ! 

O  ye  ho,  boys  !     Spread  her  wings  ! 

Fair  winds,  boys  :  send  her  home  ! 
O  ye  ho  ! 

At  night,  the  same  stars  o'er  the  mast : 
The  mast  sways  round  —  however  fast 
We  fly  —  still  sways  and  swings  around 
One  scanty  circle's  starry  bound. 

O  ye  ho,  boys  !     Spread  her  wings  ! 

Fair  winds,  boys  :   send  her  home  ! 
O  ye  ho  ! 

Ah,  many  a  month  those  stars  have  shone, 
And  many  a  golden  morn  has  flown, 
Since  that  so  solemn,  happy  morn, 
When,  I  away,  my  babe  was  born. 

O  ye  ho,  boys  !     Spread  her  wings  ! 

Fair  winds,  boys  :  send  her  home  ! 
O  ye  ho  ! 

And,  though  so  near  we  're  drawing,  now, 
'T  is  farther  off —  I  know  not  how  — 


SAILOR'S  SONG.  73 

I  would  not  aught  amiss  had  come 
To  babe  or  mother  there,  at  home  ! 

O  ye  ho,  boys  !     Spread  her  wings  ! 

Fair  winds,  boys  :  send  her  home  ! 
O  ye  ho  ! 

'T  is  but  a  seeming  :  swiftly  rush 
The  seas,  beneath.     I  hear  the  crush 
Of  foamy  ridges  'gainst  the  prow. 
Longing  outspeeds  the  breeze,  I  know. 

O  ye  ho,  boys  !     Spread  her  wings  ! 

Fair  winds,  boys  :  send  her  home  ! 
O  ye  ho  ! 

Patience,  my  mates  !     Though  not  this  eve 
We  cast  our  anchor,  yet  believe, 
If  but  the  wind  holds,  short  the  run  : 
We  '11  sail  in  with  to-morrow's  sun. 

O  ye  ho,  boys  !     Spread  her  wings  ! 

Fair  winds,  boys  :  send  her  home  ! 
O  ye  ho  ! 


JESSAMINE. 

HERE  stands  the  great  tree  still,  with  broad,  bent 

head, 

And  wide  arms  grown  aweary,  yet  outspread 
With  their  old  blessing.     But  wan  memory  weaves 
Strange    garlands    now    amongst    the    darkening 

leaves. 
And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 

Beneath  these  glimmering  arches  Jessamine 

Walked  with  her  lover  long  ago,  and  in 

This   moon-made   shade   he    questioned ;  and  she 

spoke  : 

Then  on  them  both  love's  rarer  radiance  broke. 
And  the  moon  hangs  tow  in  the  elm. 

Sweet  Jessamine  we  called  her  ;  for  she  shone 
Like  blossoms  that  in  sun  and  shade  have  grown, 
Gathering  from  each  alike  a  perfect  white, 
Whose  rich  bloom  breaks  opaque  through  darkest 

night. 
And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 


JESSAMINE.  75 

And  for  this  sweetness  Walt,  her  lover,  sought 
To  win  her  ;  wooed  her  here,  his  heart  full-fraught 
With  fragrance  of  her  being,  and  gained  his  plea. 
So  "  We  will  wed-,"  they  said,  "  beneath  this  tree." 
And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm, 

Was  it  unfaith,  or  faith  more  full  to  her, 
Made  him,  for  fame  and  fortune  longing,  spur 
Into  the  world  ?     Far  from  his  home  he  sailed  : 
And    life   paused  ;  while   she  watched  joy  vanish, 

vailed. 
And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 

Oh,  better  at  the  elm  tree's  sun-browned  feet 
If  he  had  been  content  to  let  life  fleet 
Its  wonted  way  !  —  there  rearing  his  small  house ; 
Mowing  and  milking,  lord  of  corn  and  cows  ! 
And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 

For  as  against  a  snarling  sea  one  steers, 
Ever  he  battled  with  the  beetling  years  ; 
And  ever  Jessamine  must  watch  and  pine, 
Her  vision  bounded  by  the  bleak  sea-line. 
And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 


76  JESSAMINE. 

At  last  she  heard  no  more.     The  neighbors  said 
That  Walt  had  married,  faithless,  or  was  dead. 
Yet  naught  her  trust  could  move ;  the  tryst  she  kept 
Each  night  still,  'neath  this  tree,  before  she  slept. 
And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 

So,  circling  years  went  by ;  and  in  her  face 
Slow  melancholy  wrought  a  tempered  grace 
Of  early  joy  with  sorrow's  rich  alloy  — 
Refined,  rare,  no  doom  should  e'er  destroy. 
And  the  moon  -hangs  low  in  the  elm. 

Sometimes  at  twilight,  when  sweet  Jessamine, 
Slow-footed,  weary-eyed,  passed  by  to  win 
The  elm,  we  smiled  for  pity  of  her,  and  mused 
On  love  that  so  could  live  with  love  refused. 
And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 

Nor  none  could  hope  for  her.     But  she  had  grown 
Too  high  in  love  for  hope,  and  bloomed  alone, 
Aloft  in  pure  sincerity  secure  ; 
For  fortune's  failures,  in  her  faith  too  sure. 
And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 


JESSAMINE.  77 

Oh,  well  for  Walt,  if  he  had  known  her  soul ! 
Discouraged  on  disaster's  changeful  shoal 
Wrecking,  he  rested ;  starved  on  selfish  pride 
Long  years ;  nor  would  obey  love's  homeward  tide. 
.And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 

But,  bitterly  repenting  of  his  sin, 

Oh,  bitterly  he  learned  to  look  within 

Sweet  Jessamine's  clear  depth  —  when   the   past, 

dead, 

Mocked  him,  and  wild,  waste  years  forever  fled ! 
And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 

Late,  late,  oh,  late  beneath  the  tree  stood  two  ! 
In  awe  and  anguish  wondering  :  "  Is  it  true  ?  " 
Two  that  were  each  most  like  to  some  wan  wraith  r 
Yet  each  on  each  looked  with  a  living  faith. 
And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm, 

Even  to  the  tree-top  sang  the  wedding-bell ; 
Even  to  the  tree-top  tolled  the  passing  knell. 
Beneath  it  Walt  and  Jessamine  were  wed  ; 
Beneath  it  many  a  year  she  lieth  dead  ! 
And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 


78  JESSAMINE. 

Here  stands  the  great  tree  still.    But  age  has  crept 
Through  every  coil,  while  Walt  each  night  has  kept 
The  tryst  alone.     Hark !  with  what  windy  might 
The  boughs  chant  o'er  her  grave  their  burial-rite ! 
And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm.     « 


GRIEF'S    HERO. 

A  YOUTH  unto  herself  Grief  took, 
Whom  everything  of  joy  forsook, 
And  men  passed  with  denying  head, 
Saying  :  "  'T  were  better  he  were  dead." 

Grief  took  him,  and  with  master-touch 
Molded  his  being.     I  marveled  much 
To  see  her  magic  with  the  clay, 
So  much  she  gave  —  and  took  away. 
Daily  she  wrought,  and  her  design 
Grew  daily  clearer  and  more  fine, 
To  make  the  beauty  of  his  shape 
Serve  for  the  spirit's  free  escape. 
With  liquid  fire  she  filled  his  eyes. 
She  graced  his  lips  with  swift  surmise 
Of  sympathy  for  others'  woe, 
And  made  his  every  fibre  flow 
In  fairer  curves.     On  brow  and  chin 
And  tinted  cheek,  drawn  clean  and  thin, 


80  GRIEFS  HERO. 

She  sculptured  records  rich,  great  Grief ! 
She  made  him  loving,  made  him  lief. 

I  marveled  ;  for,  where  others  saw 
A  failing  frame  with  many  a  flaw, 
Meseemed  a  figure  I  beheld 
Fairer  than  anything  of  eld 
Fashioned  from  sunny  marble.     Here 
Nature  was  artist  with  no  peer. 

No  chisel's  purpose  could  have  caught 

• 

These  lines,  nor  brush  their  secret  wrought. 
Not  so  the  world  weighed,  busily 
Pursuing  drossy  industry  ; 
But,  saturated  with  success, 
Well-guarded  by  a  soft  excess 
Of  bodily  ease,  gave  little  heed 
To  him  that  held  not  by  their  creed, 
Save  o'er  the  beauteous  youth  to  moan  : 

"  A  pity  that  he  is  not  grown 
To  our  good  stature  and  heavier  weight, 
To  bear  his  share  of  our  full  freight." 
Meanwhile,  thus  to  himself  he  spoke  : 

"  Oh,  noble  is  the  knotted  oak, 
And  sweet  the  gush  of  sylvan  streams, 
And  good  the  great  sun's  gladding  beams, 


GRIEF'S  HERO.  8 1 

The  blush  of  life  upon  the  field, 

The  silent  might  that  mountains  wield. 

Still  more  I  love  to  mix  with  men, 

Meeting  the  kindly  human  ken  ; 

To  feel  the  force  of  faithful  friends  — 

The  thirst  for  smiles  that  never  ends. 

"  Yet  precious  more  than  all  of  these 
I  hold  great  Sorrow's  mysteries, 
Whereby  Gehenna's  sultry  gale 
Is  made  to  lift  the  golden  veil 
'Twixt  heaven's  starry-sphered  light 
Of  truth' and  our  dim,  sun-blent  sight. 
Joy  comes  to  ripen  ;  but  't  is  Grief 
That  garners  in  the  grainy  sheaf. 
Time  was  I  feared  to  know  or  feel 
The  spur  of  aught  but  gilded  weal ; 
To  bear  aloft  the  victor,  Fame, 
Would  ev'n  have  champed  a  stately  shame 
Of  bit  and  bridle.     But  my  fears 
Fell  off  in  the  pure  bath  of  tears. 
And  now  with  sinews  fresh  and  strong 
I  stride,  to  summon  with  a  song 
The  deep,  invigorating  truth 
That  makes  me  younger  than  my  youth. 
6 


82  CHIEF'S  HERO. 

"  O  Sorrow,  deathless  thy  delight ! 
Deathless  it  were  but  for  our  slight 
Endurance  !     Truth  like  thine,  too  rare, 
We  dare  but  take  in  scantiest  share." 

He  died  :  the  creatures  of  his  kind 
Fared  on.     Not  one  had  known  his  mind. 

But  the  unnamed  yearnings  of  the  air, 
The  eternal  sky's  wide-searching  stare, 
The  undertone  of  brawling  floods, 
And  the  old  moaning  of  the  woods 
Grew  full  of  memory. 

The  sun 

Many  a  brave  heart  has  shone  upon 
Since  then,  of  men  who  walked  abroad 
For  joy  and  gladness  praising  God. 
But  widowed  Grief  lives  on  alone  : 
She  hath  not  chosen,  of  them,  one. 


A   FACE   IN   THE    STREET. 

POOR,  withered  face,  that  yet  was  once  so  fair, 
Grown  ashen-old  in  the  wild  fires  of  lust  — 
Thy  star-like  beauty,  climm'd  with  earthly  dust, 
Yet  breathing  of  a  purer  native  air  ;  — 

They  who  whilom,  cursed  vultures,  sought  a  share 
Of  thy  dead  womanhood,  their  greed  unjust 
Have  satisfied,  have  stripped  and  left  thee  bare. 
Still,  like  a  leaf  warped  by  the  autumn  gust, 

And  driving  to  the  end,  thou  wrapp'st  in  flame 
And  perfume  all  thy  hollow-eyed  decay, 

Feigning  on  those  gray  cheeks  the  blush  that  Shame 
Took  with  her  when  she  fled  long  since  away. 
Ah  God  !  rain  fire  upon  this  foul-souled  city 
That  gives  such  death,  and  spares  its  men,  — 
for  pity  ! 


THE   BATHER. 

STANDING  here  alone, 

Let  me  pause  awhile, 

Drinking  in  the  light 

Ere,  with  plunge  of  white  limbs  prone, 

I  raise  the  sparkling  flight 

Of  foam-flakes  volatile. 

Now,  in  natural  guise, 

I  woo  the  deathless  breeze, 

Through  me  rushing  fleet 

The  joy  of  life,  in  swift  surprise  : 

I  grow  with  growing  wheat, 

And  burgeon  with  the  trees. 

Lo  !  I  fetter  Time, 

So  he  cannot  run  ; 

And  in  Eden  again  — 

Flash  of  memory  sublime  !  — 

Dwell  naked,  without  stain, 

Beneath  the  dazed  sun. 


THE  BATHER.  85 

All  yields  brotherhood  ; 
Each  least  thing  that  lives, 
Wrought  of  primal  spores, 
Deepens  this  wild  sense  of  good 
That,  on  these  shaggy  shores. 
Return  to  nature  gives. 

Oh,  that  some  solitude 
Were  ours,  in  woodlands  deep, 
Where,  with  lucent  eyes, 
Living  lithe  and  limber-thewed, 
Our  life's  shape  might  arise 
Like  mountains  fresh  from  sleep  ! 

To  sounds  of  water  falling, 

Hosts  of  delicate  dreams 

Should  lull  us  and  allure 

With  a  dim,,  enchanted  calling, 

Blameless  to  live  and  pure 

Like  these  sweet  springs  and  streams. 

But  in  a  wilderness 
Alone  may  such  life  be  ? 
Why  of  all  things  framed, 
In  my  human  form  confessed 


86  THE  BATHER. 

Should  I  be  ashamed, 

And  blush  for  honesty  ? 

• 

Rounded,  strengthy  limbs 
That  knit  me  to  my  kind  — 
Your  glory  turns  to  grief  ! 
Shall  I  for  my  soul  sing  hymns, 
Yet  for  my  body  find 
No  clear,  divine  belief  ? 

Let  me  rather  die, 

Than  by  faith  uphold 

Dogmas  weak  that  dare 

The  form  that  once  Christ  wore  deny 

Afraid  with  him  to  share 

A  purity  twofold ; 

Yet,  while  sin  remains 

On  this  saddened  earth, 

Humbly  walk  my  ways  ! 

For  my  garments  are  as  chains  ; 

And  I  fear  to  praise 

My  frame  with  careless  mirth. 


THE  BATHER.  87 

Joy  and  penance  go 
Hand  in  hand,  I  see  ! 
Would  I  could  live  so  well, 
Soul  of  me  should  never  know 
When  my  coverings  fell, 
Nor  feel  this  nudity  ! 


HELEN   AT   THE   LOOM. 

HELEN,  in  her  silent  room, 
Weaves  upon  the  upright  loom, 
Weaves  a  mantle  rich  and  dark, 
Purpled  over-deep.     But  mark 
How  she  scatters  o'er  the  wool 
Woven  shapes,  till  it  is  full 
Of  men  that  struggle  close,  complex  ; 
Short-clipp'd  steeds  with  wrinkled  necks 
Arching  high  ;    spear,  shield,  and  all 
The  panoply  that  doth  recall 
Mighty  war,  such  war  as  e'en 
For  Helen's  sake  is  waged,  I  ween. 
Purple  is  the  groundwork  :  good  ! 
All  the  field  is  stained  with  blood. 
Blood  poured  out  for  Helen's  sake ; 
(Thread,  run  on  ;  and,  shuttle,  shake  !) 
But  the  shapes  of  men  that  pass 
Are  as  ghosts  within  a  glass, 
Woven  with  whiteness  of  the  swan, 
Pale,  sad  memories,  gleaming  wan 


HELEN  AT  THE  LOOM.  89 

From  the  garment's  purple  fold 
Where  Troy's  tale  is  twined  and  told. 
Well  may  Helen,  as  with  tender 
Touch  of  rosy  fingers  slender 
She  doth  knit  the  story  in 
Of  Troy's  sorrow  and  her  sin, 
Feel  sharp  filaments  of  pain 
Reeled  off  with  the  well-spun  skein, 
And  faint  blood-stains  on  her  hands 
From  the  shifting  sanguine  strands. 
Gently,  sweetly  she  doth  sorrow  : 
What  has  been  must  be  to-morrow  ; 
Meekly  to  her  fate  she  bows. 
Heavenly  beauties  still  will  rouse 
Strife  and  savagery  in  men  : 
Shall  the  lucid  heavens,  then, 
Lose  their  high  serenity, 
Sorrowing  over  what  must  be  ? 
If  she  taketh  to  her  shame, 
Lo,  they  give  her  not  the  blame,  — 
Priam's  wisest  counselors, 
Aged  men,  not  loving  wars  : 
When  she  goes  forth,  clad  in  white, 
Day-cloud  touched  by  first  moonlight, 
With  her  fair  hair,  amber-hued 
As  vapor  by  the  moon  imbued 


90  HELEN  AT  THE  LOOM. 

With  burning  brown,  that  round  her  clings, 

See,  she  sudden  silence  brings 

On  the  gloomy  whisperers 

Who  would  make  the  wrong  all  hers. 

So,  Helen,  in  thy  silent  room, 

Labor  at  the  storied  loom  ; 

(Thread,  run  on  ;  and,  shuttle,  shake  !) 

Let  thy  aching  sorrow  make 

Something  strangely  beautiful 

Of  this  fabric,  since  the  wool 

Comes  so  tinted  from  the  Fates, 

Dyed  with  loves,  hopes,  fears,  and  hates. 

Thou  shalt  work  with  subtle  force 

All  thy  deep  shade  of  remorse 

In  the  texture  of  the  weft, 

That  no  stain  on  thee  be  left ;  — 

Ay,  false  queen,  shalt  fashion  grief, 

Grief  and  wrong,  to  soft  relief. 

Speed  the  garment !     It  may  chance. 

Long  hereafter,  meet  the  glance 

Of  CEnone ;  when  her  lord, 

Now  thy  Paris,  shall  go  t'ward 

Ida,  at  his  last  sad  end, 

Seeking  her,  his  early  friend, 


HELEN  AT  THE  LOOM.  91 

Who  alone  can  cure  his  ill 

Of  all  who  love  him,  if  she  will. 

It  were  fitting  she  should  see 

In  that  hour  thine  artistry, 

And  her  husband's  speechless  corse 

In  the  garment  of  remorse  ! 

But  take  heed  that  in  thy  work 

Naught  unbeautiful  may  lurk. 

Ah,  how  little  signifies 

Unto  thee  what  fortunes  rise, 

What  others  fall !     Thou  still  shalt  rule, 

Still  shalt  work  the  colored  crewl. 

Though  thy  yearning  woman's  eyes 

Burn  with  glorious  agonies, 

Pitying  the  waste  and  woe, 

And  the  heroes  falling  low 

In  the  war  around  thee,  here, 

Yet  that  exquisitest  tear 

'Twixt  thy  lids  shall  dearer  be 

Than  life,  to  friend  or  enemy. 

There  are  people  on  the  earth 
Doomed  with  doom  of  too  great  worth. 
Look  on  Helen  not  with  hate, 
Therefore,  but  compassionate. 


92  HELEN  AT  THE  LOOM 

If  she  suffer  not  too  much, 

Seldom  does  she  feel  the  touch 

Of  that  fresh,  auroral  joy 

Lighter  spirits  may  decoy 

To  their  pure  and  sunny  lives. 

Heavy  honey  't  is,  she  hives. 

To  her  sweet  but  burdened  soul 

All  that  here  she  doth  control  — 

What  of  bitter  memories, 

What  of  coming  fate's  surmise, 

Paris'  passion,  distant  din 

Of  the  war  now  drifting  in 

To  her  quiet  —  idle  seems ; 

Idle  as  the  lazy  gleams 

Of  some  stilly  water's  reach, 

Seen  from  where  broad  vine-leaves  pleach 

A  heavy  arch,  and,  looking  through, 

Far  away  the  doubtful  blue 

Glimmers,  on  a  drowsy  day, 

Crowded  with  the  sun's  rich  gray, 

As  she  stands  within  her  room, 

Weaving,  weaving  at  the  loom. 


"O   WHOLESOME   DEATH." 

O  WHOLESOME  Death,  thy  sombre  funeral-car 
Looms  ever  dimly  on  the  lengthening  way 
Of  life  ;  while,  lengthening  still,  in  sad  array, 

My  deeds  in  long  procession  go,  that  are 

As  mourners  of  the  man  they  helped  to  mar. 
I  see  it  all  in  dreams,  such  as  waylay 
The  wandering  fancy  when  the  solid  day 

Has  fallen  in  smoldering  ruins,  and  night's  star, 

Aloft  there,  with  its  steady  point  of  light 

Mastering   the   eye,  has  wrapped    the   brain  in 
sleep. 

Ah,  when  I  die,  and  planets  take  their  flight 
Above  my  grave,  still  let  my  spirit  keep 

Sometimes  its  vigil  of  divine  remorse, 

'Midst  pity,  praise,  or  blame  heaped  o'er  my  corse  ! 


BURIAL-SONG   FOR   SUMMER. 

Now  the  last  wreath  of  snow 
That  melts,  in  mist  exhales 
White  aspiration,  and  our  deep-voiced  gales 
In  chorus  chant  the  measured  march  of  spring, 
Whom  griefs  of  life  and  death 
Are  burdening  ! 
Slow,  slow  — 
With  half-held  breath  — 

Tread  slow,  O  mourners,  that  all  men  may  know 
What  hero  here  lies  low  ! 

O  music,  sweep 

From  some  deep  cave,  and  bear 
To  us  that  gasp  in  this  so  meagre  air 

Sweet  ministerings 
And  consolations  of  contorted  sound, 

With  agonies  profound 
Of  nobly  warring  and  enduring  chords 
That  lie,  close-bound, 


BURIAL-SONG  FOR  SUMNER.  95 

Unstirred  as  yet  'neath  thy  wide,  wakening  wings ; 

So  that  our  hearts  break  not  in  broken  words. 
O  music,  that  hast  power 
This  darkness  to  devour 

In  vivid  light ;  that  from  the  dusk  of  grief 

Canst  cause  to  grow  divergent  flower  and  leaf, 

And  from  death's  darkest  roots 

Bring  forth  the  fairest  fruits  ;  — 

Come  thou,  to  quicken  this  hour 

Of  loss,  and  keep 

Thy  spell  on  all,  that  none  may  dare  to  weep ! 

For  he  whom  now  we  mourn, 

As  if  from  giants  born, 
Was  strong  in  limb  and  strong  in  brain, 
And  nobly  with  a  giant  scorn 

Withstood  the  direst  pain 

That  healing  science  knows, 

When,  by  the  dastard  blows 

Of  his  brute  enemy 
Laid  low,  he  sought  to  rise  again 

Through  help  of  knife  and  fire,  — 

The  awful  enginery 

Wherewith  men  dare  aspire 
To  wrest  from  Death  his  victims.     Yea,     • 


96  BURIAL-SONG  FOR  SUMNER. 

Though  he  Vho  healed  him  shrank  and  throbbed 
With  horror  of  the  wound, 
Brave  Sumner  gave  no  sound, 
Nor  flinched,  nor  sobbed, 
But  as  though  within  the  man 
Instant  premonition  ran 

Of  his  high  fate, 
Imperishable,  sculptured  state 

Enthroned  in  death  to  hold, 
He  stood,  a  statued  form 
Of  veiled  and  voiceless  storm, 
Inwardly  quivering 
Like  the  "swift-smitten  string 
Of  unheard  music,  yet 
As  massively  and  firmly  set 
As  if  he  had  been  marble  or  wrought  gold ! 

Built  in  so  brave  a  shape, 
How  could  he  hope  escape 
The  blundering  people's  wrath  ? 

Who,  seeing  him  strong, 
Supposed  it  right  to  cast  on  him  their  wrong, 
Since  he  could  bear  it  all ! 
Lo,  now,  the  sombre  pall 
Sweeps  their  dull  errors  from  the  path, 
And  leaves  it  free 


BURIAL-SONG  FOR  SUMNER.  97 

For  him,  whose  hushed  heart  no  reproaches  hath, 

Unto  his  grave  to  fare, 

In  shrouded  majesty ! 

His  triumph  fills  the  air  : 

Behold,  the  streets  are  bordered  with  vain  breath 
Of  those  who  reverent  watch  the  train  of  death  ; 

But  he  has  done  with  breathing  ! 

Wise  Death,  still  choosing  near  and  far, 
Thou  couldst  not  strike  a  higher  star 
From  out  our  heaven,  and  yet  its  light 
In  falling  glorifies  the  night ! 

Leader  in  life,  his  lips,  though  dumb, 
Still  rule  us  by  their  restfulness,  their  smile 
Of  far-off  meanings ;  and  the  people  come 
In  tributary  hosts  for  many  a  mile, 

Drawn  by  an  eloquence 

More  solemn  and  intense 

Than  that  wherewith  he  shook 

The  Senate,  while  his  look 
Of  sober  lightning  cleft  the  knotty  growth 
Of  error,  that  within  the  riven  root 
Uplifted,  lit  with  peace,  truth's  buds  might  shoot, 
And  blow  sweet  breath  o'er  all,  however  loth  ! 


98  BURIAL-SONG  FOR  SUMNER. 

Unspeaking,  though  his  eyes  forget 

The  light  that  late  forsook 

Their  chambers,  there  doth  rise 
Mysteriously  yet 

A  radiance  thence  that  glows 
On  brows  of  them,  the  great  and  wise, 
Poets  and  men  of  prophecies, 
Who,  with  looks  of  strange  repose, 
Calm,  exalted,  here  have  met 
Him  to  follow  to  his  grave. 
Well  they  know  he  's  crossed  their  bound, 
Yet,  with  baffled  longing  brave, 
Seek  with  him  the  depths  to  sound 
That  gulf  our  lonely  life  around. 
Oh,  on  these  mortal  faces  frail 

What  immortality 

Falls  from  the  death-light  pale  ! 

Ev'n  thus  the  path  unto  thy  tomb, 
Sumner,  all  our  brave  and  good 
Still  shall  pace  through  time  to  come, 
For  in  distant  Auburn  wood 
Seeing  the  glimmer  of  thy  stone, 
They  a  shaft  shall  deem  it,  thrown 
From  a  dawn  beyond  the  deep, 


BURIAL-SONG  FOR  SUMNER.  99 

And  so  haste  with  thee  to  keep 
Angelic  brotherhood ! 
O  herald,  gone  before, 
For  these  throw  wide  the  door, 
Make  room,  make  room  ! 

Now,  music,  cease, 

And  bitter  brazen  trumpets  hold  your  peace  ! 
Now,  while  the  dumb,  white  air 
Draws  from  our  still  despair 
A  purer  prayer. 
Then  must  the  sod 
Fulfill  its  humble  share, 
Meek-folded  o'er  his  breast, 
Here  where  he  lies  amongst  the  waiting  trees  : 
They  shall  break  bud  when  warm  winds  from  the 

west 

And  southern  breezes  come  to  touch  the  place 
'Made  precious  by  this  grace 
Of  memory  dear  to  God. 

We  leave  him  where  the  granite  Lion  lies 
And  gazes  toward  the  East,  with  woman's  eyes 
That  read  the  riddle  of  the  undying  sun, 
Bearing  within  her  breast  the  stony  germ 


IO3  BURIAL-SONG  FOR  SUMNER. 

Of  continents,  but : —  lasting  no  less  firm  — 
The  memory  of  those  marvels  done, 
The  battles  fought,  the  words  that  wrought 
To  free  a  race,  and  chasten  one. 
We  leave  him  where  the  river  slowly  winds, 

A  broken  chain  ; 
The  river  that  so  late  its  hero  finds, 

Without  a  stain, 
Whose  name  so  long  expectantly  it  bore  ; 

And,  echoing  now  a  people's  thought, 
The  Charles  shall  murmur  by  this  reedy  shore 
"His  fame  forevermore. 


ARISE,    AMERICAN! 

THE  soul  of  a  nation  awaking,  — 
High  visions  of  daybreak  I  saw, 

And  the  stir  of  a  state,  the  forsaking 
Of  sin,  and  the  worship  of  law. 

O  pine-tree,  shout !     And  hoarser 

Rush,  river,  unto  the  sea, 
Foam-fettered  and  sun-flushed,  a  courser 

That  feels  the  prairie,  free  ! 

Our  birth-star  beckons  to  trial 
All  faith  of  the  far-fled  years, 

Ere  scorn  was  our  share,  and  denial, 
Or  laughter  for  patriot's  tears. 

And  lo,  Faith  comes  forth  the  finer 
From  trampled  thickets  of  fire, 

And  the  orient  opens  diviner 

Before  her ;  the  heaven  lifts  higher. 


102  ARISE,   AMERICAN! 

O  deep,  sweet  eyes,  and  severer 

Than  steel !  he  knoweth  who  comes, 

Thy  hero  :  bend  thine  eyes  nearer ! 
Now  wilder  than  battle-drums 

Thy  glance  in  his  blood  is  stirring ! 

His  heart  is  alive  like  the  main 
When  the  roweled  winds  are  spurring, 

And  the  broad  tides  shoreward  strain. 

O  hero,  art  thou  among  us  ? 

O  helper,  hidest  thou  still  ? 
Why  hath  he  no  anthem  sung  us, 

Why  waiteth,  nor  worketh  our  will  ? 

For  still  a  smirk  or  a  favor 

Can  hide  the  face  of  the  false ; 

And  the  old-time  Faith  seeks  braver 
Upholders,  and  sacreder  walls. 

Yea,  cunning  is  Christian  evil, 
And  subtle  the  conscience'  snare  ; 

But  virtue's  volcanic  upheaval 
Shall  cast  fine  device  to  the  air  ! 


ARISE,  AMERICAN!  103 

Too  long  has  the  land's  soul  slumbered, 
And  triumph  bred  dangerous  ease,  — 

Our  victories  all  unnumbered, 

Our  feet  on  the  down-bowed  seas. 

Come,  then,  simple  and  stalwart 

Life  of  the  earlier  days  ! 
Come  !     Far  better  than  all  were  it  — 

Our  precepts,  our  prayers,  and  our  lays  — 

That  the  heart  of  the  people  should  tremble 
Accord  to  some  mighty  one's  voice, 

The  helpless  atoms  assemble 
In  music,  their  valor  to  poise. 

Come  to  us,  mountain-dweller, 

Leader,  wherever  thou  art, 
Skilled  from  thy  cradle,  a  queller 

Of  serpents,  and  sound  to  the  heart ! 

Modest,  and  mighty,  and  tender, 

Man  of  an  iron  mold, 
Learned  or  unlearned,  our  defender, 

American-souled  ! 


THE   SILENT   TIDE. 

A  TANGLED  orchard  round  the  farm-house  spreads, 
Wherein  it  stands  home-like,  but  desolate, 
'Midst  crowded  and  uneven-statured  sheds, 
Alike  by  rain  and  sunshine  sadly  stained. 
A  quiet  country-road'before  the  door 
Runs,  gathering  close  its  ruts  to  scale  the  hill  — 
A  sudden  bluff  on  the  New  Hampshire  coast, 
That  rises  rough  against  the  sea,  and  hangs 
Crested  above  the  bowlder-sprinkled  beach. 
And  on  the  road  white  houses  small  are  strung 
Like  threaded  beads,  with  intervals.     The  church 
Tops  the  rough  hill ;  then  comes  the  wheelwright's 
shop. 

From  orchard,  church,  and  shop  you  hear  the  sea, 
And  from  the  farm-house  windows  see  it  strike 
Sharp  gleams  through  slender  arching  apple-boughs. 

Sea-like,  too,  echoing  round  me  here  there  rolls 


THE  SILENT  TIDE.  1 05 

A  surging  sorrow ;  and  even  so  there  breaks 

A  smitten  light  of  woe  upon  me,  now, 

Seeing  this  place,  and  telling  o'er  again 

The  tale  of  those  who  dwelt  here  once.    Long  since 

It  was,  and  they  were  two  —  two  brothers,  bound 

By  early  orphanage  and  solitude 

The  closer,  cleaving  strongly  each  to  each, 

Till  love,  that  held  them  many  years  in  gage, 

Itself  swept  them  asunder.     I  have  heard 

v 

The  story  from  old  Deacon  Snow,  their  friend, 
He^who  was  boy  and  man  with  them.     A  boy  ! 
What,  he  ?    How  strange  it  seems  !  who  now  is  stiff 
And  warped  with  life's  fierce   heat  and  cold  :  his 

brows 

Are  hoary  white,  and  on  his  head  the  hairs 
Stand   sparse   as  wheat-stalks  on  the   bare  field's 

edge  ! 

Reuben  and  Jerry  they  were  named ;  but  two 
Of  common  blood  and  nurture  scarce  were  found 
More  sharply  different.     For  the  first  was  bold, 
Breeze-like  and  bold  to  come  or  go ;  not  rash, 
But  shrewdly  generous,  popular,  and  boon  : 
And  Jerry,  dark  and  sad-faced.     Whether  least 
He  loved  himself  or  neighbor  none  could  tell, 


106  THE  SILENT  TIDE. 

So  cold  he  seemed  in  wonted  sympathy. 

Yet  he  would  ponder  an  hour  at  a  time 

Upon  a  bird  found  dead ;  and  much  he  loved 

To  brood  i'  th'  shade  of  yon  wind-wavered  pines. 

Often  at  night,  too,  he  would  wander  forth, 

Lured  by  the  hollow  rumbling  of  the  sea 

In  moonlight  breaking,  there  to  learn  wild  things, 

Such  as  these  dreamers  pluck  out  of  the  dusk 

While  other  men  lie  sleeping.     But  a  star, 

Rose  on  his  sight,  at  last,  with  power  to  rule 

Majestically  mild  that  deep-domed  sky, 

High  as  youth's  hopes,  that  stood  above  his  soul ; 

And,  ruling,  led  him  dayward.     That  was  Grace, 

I  mean  Grace  Brierly,  daughter  of  the  squire, 

Rivaling  the  wheelwright  Hungerford's  shy  Ruth 

For  beauty.     Therefore,  in  the  sunny  field, 

Mowing  the  clover-purpled  grass,  or,  waked 

In  keen  December  dawns,  —  while  creeping  light 

And  winter-tides  beneath  the  pallid  stars 

Stole  o'er  the  marsh  together,  —  a  thought  of  her 

Would   turn   him   cool   or   warm,    like   the   south 

breeze, 

And  make  him  blithe  or  bitter.     Alas  for  him  ! 
Eagerly  storing  golden  thoughts  of  her, 
He  locked  a  phantom  treasure  in  his  breast. 


THE  SILENT   TIDE.  \Qf 

He  sought  to  chain  the  breezes,  and  to  lift 

A  perfume  as  a  pearl  before  his  eyes  — 

Intangible  delight !     A  time  drew  on 

When  from  these  twilight  musings  on  his  hopes 

He  woke,  and  found  the  morning  of  his  love 

Blasted,  and  all  its  rays  shorn  suddenly. 

For  Reuben,  too,  had  turned  his  eye  on  Grace, 

And  she  with  favoring  face  the  suit  had  met, 

Known  in  the  village ;  this  dream-fettered  youth 

Perceiving  not  what  passed,  until  too  late. 

One  holiday  the  young  folks  all  had  gone 
Strawberrying,  with  the  village  Sabbath-school ; 
Reuben  and  Grace  and  Jerry,  Ruth,  Rob  Snow, 
And  all  their  friends,  youth-mates  that  buoyantly 
Bore  out  'gainst  Time's  armadas,  like  a  fleet 
Of  fair  ships,  sunlit,  braced  by  buffeting  winds, 
Indomitably  brave  ;  but,  soon  or  late, 
Battle  and  hurricane  or  whirl  them  deep 
Below  to  death,  or  send  them  homeward,  seared 
By  shot  and  storm :  so  went  they  forth,  that  day. 

Two  wagons  full  of  rosy  children  rolled 
Along  the  rutty  track,  'twixt  swamp  and  slope, 
Through  deep,  green-glimmering  woods,  and  out  at 
last 


108  THE  SILENT   TIDE. 

On  grassy  table-land,  warm  with  the  sun 

And  yielding  tributary  odors  wild 

Of  strawberry,  late  June-rose,  juniper, 

Where   sea   and   land   breeze   mingled.     There  a 

brook 

Through  a  bare  hollow  flashing,  spurted,  purled, 
And  shot  away,  yet  stayed  —  a  light  and  grace 
Unconscious  and  unceasing.     And  thick  pines, 
Hard  by,  drew  darkly  far  away  their  dim 
And  sheltering,  cool  arcades.     So  all  dismount, 
And  fields  and  forest  gladden  with  their  shout ; 
Ball,  swing,  and  see-saw  sending  the  light  hearts 
Of  the  children  high  o'er  earth  and  everything. 
While  some  staid,  kindly  women  draw  and  spread 
In  pine-shade  the  long  whiteness  of  a  cloth, 
The  rest,  a  busy  legion,  o'er  the  grass 
Kneeling,  must  rifle  the  meadow  of  its  fruit. 

O  laughing  Fate  !     O  treachery  of  truth 

To  royal  hopes  youth  bows  before  !     That  day, 

Ev'n  there  where  life  in  such  glad  measure  beat 

Its  round,  with  winds  and  waters,  tunefully, 

And  birds  made  music  in  the  matted  wood, 

The  shaft  of  death  reached  Jerry's  heart :  he  saw 

The  sweet  conspiracy  of  those  two  lives, 


THE  SILENT  TIDE.  109 

In  looks  and  gestures  read  his  doom,  and  heard 
Their  laughter  ring  to  the  grave  all  mirth  of  his. 

So  Reuben's  life  in  full  leaf  stood,  its  fruit 
Hidden  in  a  green  expectancy ;  but  all 
His  days  were  rounded  with  ripe  consciousness : 
While  Jerry  felt  the  winter's  whitening  blight, 
As  when  that  frosty  fern-work  and  those  palms 
Of  visionary  leaf,  and  trailing  vines, 
Quaint-chased  by  night-winds  on   the   pane,  melt 

off, 

And  naked  earth,  stone-stiff,  with  bristling  trees, 
Stares  in  the  winter  sunlight  coldly  through. 
But  yet  he  rose,  ancl  clothed  himself  amain 
With  misery,  and  once  more  put  on  life 
As  a  stained  garment.     Highly  he  resolved 
To  make  his  deedless  days  henceforward  strike 
Pure  harmony  —  a  psalm  of  silences. 

But  on  the  Sunday,  coming  from  the  church, 
He  saw  those  happy,  plighted  lovers  walk 
Before  proud  Grace's  father,  and  of  friends 
Heard  comment  and  congratulation  given. 
Then  with  Rob  Snow  he  hurried  to  the  beach, 
To  a  rough  heap  of  stones  they  two  had  reared 


IIO  THE  SILENT  TIDE. 

In  boyhood.     There  the  two  held  sad  debate 
Of  life's  swift  losses,  Bob  inspiriting  still, 
Jerry  rejecting  hope,  ev'n  though  his  friend, 
Self-wounding  (for  he  loved  Ruth  Hungerford), 
Told  how  the  wheelwright's  daughter   longed   for 

him, 
And  yet  might  make  him  glad,  though  Grace  was 

lost. 

The  season  deepened,  and  in  Jerry's  heart 
Ripened  a  thought  charged  with  grave  consequence. 
His  grief  he  would  have  stifled  at  its  birth, 
Sad  child  of  frustrate  longing  !     But  anon  — 
Knowledge  of  Ruth's  affection  being  revealed, 
Which,  if  he  stayed  to  let  it  feed  on  him, 
Vine-like  might  wreathe  and  wind  about  his  life, 
Lifting  all  shade  and  sweetness  out  of  reach 
Of  Robert,  so  long  his  friend  —  honor,  and  hopes 
He  would  not  name,  kindled  a  torch  for  war 
Of  various  impulse  in  him.     Reuben  wedded  ; 
Yet  Jerry  lingered.     Then,  swift  whisperings 
Along  reverberant  walls  of  gossips'  ears 
Hummed  loud  and  louder  a  love  for  Ruth.    Grace, 

too, 
Involved  him  in  a  web  of  soft  surmise 


THE  SILENT  TIDE.  1 1  I 

With  Ruth ;  and  Reuben  questioned  him  thereof. 

But  a  white,  sudden  anger  struck  like  a  bolt 

O'er  Jerry's  face,  that  blackened  under  it : 

He  strode  away,  and  left  his  brother  dazed, 

With  red  rush  of  offended  self-conceit 

Staining  his  forehead  to  the  hair.     This  flash 

Of     anger  —  first     since      boyhood's     wholesome 

strifes  — 

On  Jerry's  path  gleamed  lurid ;  by  its  light 
He  shaped  a  life's  course  out. 

There  came  a  storm 

• 

One  night.     He  bade  farewell  to  Ruth ;  and  when 

Above  the  seas  the  bare-browed  dawn  arose, 

While  the  last  laggard  drops  ran  off  the  eaves, 

He  dressed,  but  took  some  customary  garb 

On  his  arm  ;  stole  swiftly  to  the  sands  ;  and  there 

Cast  down  his  garments  by  the  ancient  heap 

Of   stones.      At   first   brief   pause    he   made,    and 

thought : 

"  And  thus  I  play,  to  win  perchance  a  tear 
From  her  whom,  first,  to  save  the  smallest  care, 
I  thought  I  could  have  died !  "     But  then  at  once 
Within  the  sweep  of  swirling  water-planes 
That  from  the  great  waves  circled  up  and  slid 


112  THE  SILENT  TIDE. 

Instantly  back,  passing  far  down  the  shore. 
Southward  he  made  his  way.    Next  day  he  shipped 
Upon  a  whaler  outward  bound.     She  spread 
Her  mighty  wings,  and  bore  him  far  away  — 
So  far,  Death  seemed  across  her  wake  to  stalk, 
Withering  her  swift  shape  from  the  empty  air, 
Until  her  memory  grew  a  faded  dream. 

Ah,  what  a  desolate  brightness  that  young  day 
Flung   o'er   the  impassive  strand   and  dull   green 

marsh 

And  green-arched  orchard,  ere  it  struck  the  farm  ! 
Storm-strengthened,  clear,  and   cool    the  morning 

rose 

To  gaze  down  on  that  frighted  home,  where  dawned 
Pale  Ruth's  discovery  of  her  loss,  who  late, 
Guessing  some  ill  in  Jerry's  last-night  words 
Of  vague  farewell,  woke  now  to  certainty 
Of  strange  disaster.     So,  when  Reuben  and  Rob, 
Hither  and  thither  searching,  with  locked  lips 
And  eyes  grown  suddenly  cold  in  eager  dread, 
On  those  still  sands  beside  the  untamed  sea, 
Came  to  the  garments  Jerry  had  thrown  there,  dumb 
They   stood,    and    knew   he  'd    perished.       If    by 

chance 


THE  SILENT  TJDE.  113 

Borne  out  with  undertow  and  rolled  beneath 
The  gaping  surge,  or  rushing  on  his  death 
Free-willed,  they  would  not  guess  ;  but  straight  they 

set 

Themselves  to  watch  the  changes  of  the  sea  — 
The  watchful  sea  that  would  not  be  betrayed, 
The  surly  flood  that  echoed  their  suspense 
With  hollow-sounding  horror.     Thus  three  tides 
Hurled  on  the  beach  their  empty  spray,  and  brought 
N  ^r  doubt-dispelling  death,  nor  new-born  hope. 
But  with  the  fourth  slow  turn  at  length  there  came 
A  naked,  drifting  body  impelled  to  shore, 
An  unknown  sailor  by  the  late  storm  swept 
Out  of  the  rigging  of  some  laboring  ship. 
And  him,  disfigured  by  the  water's  wear, 
The  watching  friends  supposed  their  dead ;  and  so, 
Mourning,  took  up  this  outcast  of  the  deep, 
And  buried  him,  with  church-rite  and  with  pall 
Trailing,  and  train  of  sad-eyed  mourners,  there 
In  the  old  orchard-lot  by  Reuben's  door. 

Observed  among  the  mourners  walked  slight  Ruth. 
Her  grief  had  dropped  a  veil  of  finer  light 
Around  her,  hedging  her  with  sanctity 
Peculiar ;  all  stood  shy  about  her  save 


114  THE  SILENT  TIDE. 

Rob  Snow,  he  venturing  from  time  to  time 

Some  small,  uncertain  act  of  kindliness. 

Long   seemed  she  vowed  from   joy,  but  when  the 

birds 

Began  to  mate,  and  quiet  violets  blow 
Along  the  brook-side,  lo  !  she  smiled  again  ; 
Again  the  wind-flower  color  in  her  cheeks 
Blanch'd  in  a  breath,  and  bloomed  once  more  ;  then 

stayed  ; 

Till,  like  the  breeze  that  rumors  ripening  buds, 
A  delicate  sense  crept  through  the  air  that  soon 
These  two  would  scale  the  church-crowned  hill,  and 

wed. 

The  seasons  faced  the  world,  and  fled,  and  came. 
In  summer  nights,  the  soft  roll  of  the  sea 
Was  shattered,  resonant,  beneath  a  moon 
That,  silent,  seemed  to  hearken.      And  every  hour 
In  autumn,  night  or  day,  large  apples  fell 
Without  rebound  to  earth,  upon  the  sod 
There -mounded  greenly  by  the  large  slate  slab 
In  the  old  orchard-lot  near  Reuben's  door. 
But  there  were  changes  :  after  some  long  years 
Reuben  and  Grace  beheld  a  brave  young  boy 
Bearing  their  double  life  abroad  in  one  — 


THE  SILENT  TIDE.  115 

Beginning  new  the  world,  and  bringing  hopes 
That  in  their  path  fell  flower-like.     Not  at  ease 
They  dwelt,  though  ;  for  a  slow  discordancy 
Of  temper  —  weak-willed  waste  of  life  in  bursts 
Of  petulance  —  had  marred  their  happiness. 
And  so  the  boy,  young  Reuben,  as  he  grew, 
Was  chafed  and  vexed  by  this  ill-fitting  mode 
Of  life  forced  on  him,  and  rebelled.     Too  oft 
Brooding  alone,  he  shaped  loose  schemes  of  flight 
Into  the  joyous  outer  world,  to  break 
From  the  unwholesome  wranglings  of  his  home. 
Then  once,  when  at  some  slight  demur  he  made, 
Dispute  ensued  between  the  man  and  wife, 
He  burst  forth,  goaded,  "  Some  day  I  will  leave  — 
Leave  you  forever !  "     And  his  father  stared, 
Lifted  and  clenched  his  hand,  but  let  it  unloose, 
Nerveless.       The    blow,    unstruck,    yet    quivered 

through 
The  boy's  whole  body. 

Waiting  for  the  night, 

Reuben  made  ready,  lifted  latch,  went  forth ; 
Then,  with  his  little  bundle  in  his  hand, 
Took  the  bleak  road  that  led  him  to  the  world. 


Il6  THE  SILENT  TIDE. 

When  Jerry  eighteen  years  had  sailed,  had  bared 
His  hurt  soul  to  the  pitiless  sun  and  drunk 
The  rainy  brew  of  storms  on  all  seas,  tired 
Of  wreck  and  fever  and  renewed  mischance 
That  would  not  end  in  death,  a  longing  stirred 
Within  him  to  revisit  that  gray  coast 
Where  he  was  born.     He  landed  at  the  port 
Whence  first  he  sailed  ;  and,  as  in  fervid  youth, 
Set  forth  upon  the  highway,  to  walk  home. 
Some  hoarding  he  had  made,  wherewith  to  enrich 
His  brother's  brood  for  spendthrift  purposes  ; 
And  as  he  walked  he  wondered  how  they  looked, 
How  tall  they  were,  how  many  there  might  be. 
At  noon  he  set  himself  beside  the  way, 
Under  a  clump  of  willows  sprouting  dense 
O'er  the  weed-woven  margin  of  a  brook  ; 
While  in  the  fine  green  branches  overhead 
Song-sparrows  lightly  perched,  for  whom  he  threw 
From  his  scant  bread  some  crumbs,  remembering 

well 
Old   days   when   he  had  played   with    birds    like 

these  — 

The  same,  perhaps,  or  grandfathers  of  theirs, 
Or  earlier  still  progenitors  :  whereat 
They  chirped  and  chattered  louder  than  before. 


THE  SILENT    TIDE.  1 1/ 

But,  as  he  sat,  a  boy  came  down  the  road, 
Stirring  the  noontide  dust  with  laggard  feet. 
Young  Reuben  't  was,  who  seaward  made  his  way. 
And  Jerry  hailed  him,  carelessly,  his  mood 
Moving  to  salutation,  and  the  boy, 
From  under  his  torn  hat-brim  looking,  answered. 
Then,  seeing  that  he  eyed  his  scrap  of  bread, 
The  sailor  bade  him  come  and  share  it.     So 
They  fell  to  talk  ;  and  Jerry,  with  a  rough, 
Quick-touching  kindness,  the  boy's  heart  so  moved 
That  unto  him  he  all  his  wrong  confessed. 
Gravely  the  sailor  looked  at  him,  and  told 
His  own  tale  of  mad  flight  and  wandering  ;  how, 
Wasted  he  had  come  back,  his  life  a  husk 
Of  withered  seeds,  a  raveled  purse,  though  once 
With   golden   years  well   stocked,  all    squandered 

now. 

At  ending,  he  prevailed,  and  Reub  was  won 
To  turn  and  follow.     Jerry,  though  he  knew 
Not  yet  the  father's  name,  said  he  that  way 
Was  going,  too,  and  he  would  intercede 
Between  the  truant  and  his  father.     Back 
Together  then  they  went.     But  on  the  way, 
As  now  they  passed  from  pines  to  farming-land, 


Il8  THE  SILENT  TIDE. 

The  boy  asked  more.     "  'T  is  queer  you  should 

have  come 

From  these  same  parts,  and  run  away  like  me  ! 
You  did  not  tell  me  how  it  happened." 

JERRY. 

Foolish, 

All  of  it !     But  I  thought  it  weightier 
Than  the  world's  history,  once.     I  could  not  stay 
And  see  my  brother  married  to  the  girl 
I  loved ;  and  so  I  went. 

THE    BOY. 

I  had  an  uncle 

That  was  in  love.     But  he  —  he  drowned  himself. 
Why  do  men  do  so  ? 

JERRY. 
Drowned  himself  ?     And  when  ? 

THE    BOY. 

I  don't  know.     Long  ago  ;  it 's  like  a  dream 
To  me.     I  was  not  born  then.     Deacon  Snow 
Has  told  me  something  of  it.     Mother  cries 
Even  now,  beside  his  grave.     Poor  uncle  ! 


THE  SILENT  TIDR.  119 

JERRY. 

His  grave ! 

(That  could  not  be,  then.)     Yet  if  it  should  be, 
How  can  I  think  Grace  cried  — 

THE  BOY. 

How  did  you  know 
My  mother's  name  was  Grace  ? 

JERRY. 

I  am  confused 

By  what  you  say.     But  is  your  mother's  name 
Grace  ?     How  !     Grace,  too  ? 

A  strange  uneasiness 

In  Jerry's  breast  had  waked.   .  They  walked  awhile 
In  silence.     This  he  could  not  well  believe, 
That  Grace  and  Reuben  unhappy  were,  nor  that 
One  son  alone  was  theirs.     Therefore  aside 
He  thrust  that  hidden,  sharp  foreboding  :  still 
He  trusted,  still  sustained  a  calm  suspense, 
And  ranged  among  his  memories.    "Tell  me,  son," 
He  said,  "  about  this  Deacon  Snow  —  Rob  Snow 
It  must  be,  I  suppose." 


120  THE  SILENT  TIDE. 

THE   BOY. 

Oh,  do  you  know  him  ? 

JERRY. 

A  deacon  now  !     Ay,  once  I  knew  Rob  Snow  — 
A  jolly  blade,  if  ever  any  was, 
And  merry  as  the  full  moon. 

THE  BOY. 

He  has  failed 
A  good  deal  now,  though,  since  his  wife  died. 

JERRY. 

What! 

(Of  course  ;  of  course ;  all  's  changed.)     He  mar- 
ried ! 

THE  BOY. 

Why, 

How  long  you  must  have  been  away !     For  since 
I  can  remember  he  has  had  a  wife 
And  children.    She  was  Gran'ther  Hungerford's  — 

JERRY. 
Her  name  was  Ruth  ? 


THE  SILENT  TIDE.  1 21 

THE  BOY. 

Yes,  Ruth  !     'T  is  after  her 
The  deacon's  nicest  daughter  's  named  ;  she 's  Ruth. 

Then  sadly  Jerry  pondered,  and  no  more 

Found  speech.     They  tramped  on  sternly.     To  the 

brow 

Of  a  long  hill  they  came,  whence  they  could  see 
The  village  and  blue  ocean ;  then  they  sank 
Into  a  region  of  low-lying  fields 
Half-naked  from  the  scythe,  and  others  veined 
With  vines  that  'midst  dismantled,  fallen  corn 
Dragged  all  athwart  a  weight  of  tawny  gourds, 
Sun-mellowed,  sound.     And  now  the  level  way 
Stretched  forward  eagerly,  for  hard  ahead 
It  made  the  turn  that  rounded  Reuben's  house. 
Between  the  still  road  and  the  tossing  sea 
Lay  the  wide  swamp,  with  all  its  hundred  pools 
Reflecting  leaden  light ;  anon  they  passed 
A  farm-yard  where  the  noisy  chanticleer 
Strutted  and  ruled,  as  one  long  since  had  done  ; 
And  then  the  wayside  trough  with  jutting  spout 
Of  ancient,  mossy  wood,  that  still  poured  forth 
Its  liquid  largess  to  all  comers.     Soon 
A  slow  cart  met  them,  filled  with  gathered  kelp  : 


122  THE  SILENT  TIDE. 

The  salt  scent  seemed  a  breath  of  younger  days. 
They  reached  the  road-bend,  and  the  evening  shone 
Upon  them,  calmly.     Jerry  paused,  o'erwhelmed. 
Reuben,  surprised,  glanced  at  him,  and  then  said, 
"  Yonder  's  the  house."     Old  Jerry  gazed  on  him, 
And  trembled  ;  for  before  him  slowly  grew 
Through  the  boy's  face  the  mingled  features  there 
Of  father  and  of  mother  —  Grace's  mouth, 
Ripe,  pouting   lips,  and    Reuben's   square-framed 

eyes. 

But,  mastering  well  his  voice,  he  bade  the  boy 
Wait  by  the  wall,  till  he  a  little  while 
Went  forward,  and  prepared.     So  Reuben  stayed  ; 
And  Jerry  with  uncertain  step  advanced, 
As  dreaming  of  his  youth  and  this  his  home. 
Slowly  he  passed  between  the  gateless  posts 
Before  the  unused  front  door,  slowly  too 
Beyond  the  side  porch  with  its  woodbine  thick 
Draping  autumnal  splendor.     Thus  he  came 
Before  the  kitchen  window,  where  he  saw 
A  gray-haired  woman  bent  o'er  needle-work 
In  gathering  twilight.     And  without  a  voice, 
Rooted,  he  stood.     He  stirred  not,  but  his  glance 
Burned  through  the  pane  ;  uneasily  she  turned, 
And  seeing  that  shaggy  stranger  standing  there 


THE  SILENT  TIDE.  123 

Expectant,  shook  her  head,  as  though  to  warn 
Some  chance,  wayfaring  beggar.    He,  though,  stood 
And  looked  at  her  immovably.     Then,  quick 
The  sash  upthrowing,  she  made  as  if  to  speak 
Harshly ;  but  still  he  held  his  quiet  eyes 
Upon  her.     Now  she  paused  ;  her  throat  throbbed 

full; 

Her  lips  paled  suddenly,  her  wan  face  flamed, 
A  fertile  stir  of  memory  strove  to  work 
Renewal  in  those  features  wintry  cold. 
And  so  she  hung,  while  Jerry  by  a  step 
Drawn  nearer,  coming  just  beneath  her,  said, 
"  Grace  !  "     And  she  murmured,  "  Jerry  ! ''     Then 

she  bent 

Over  him,  clasping  his  great  matted  head 
With  those  worn  arms,  all  joyless  ;  and  the  tears 
Fell  hot  upon  his  forehead  from  her  eyes. 
For  now  in  this  dim  gloaming  their  two  souls 
Unfruited,  by  an  instant  insight  wild, 
Delicious,  found  the  full,  mysterious  clew 
Of  individual  being,  each  in  each. 
But,  tremulously,  soon  they  drew  themselves 
Away  from  that  so  sweet,  so  sad  embrace, 
The  first,  the  last  that  could  be  theirs.     Then  he, 
Summing  his  story  in  a  word,  a  glance, 


124  THE  SILENT  TIDE. 

Added,  "  But  though  you  see  me  broken  down 

And  poor  enough,  not  empty-handed  quite 

I  come.     For  God  set  in  my  way  a  gift, 

The  best  I  could  have  sought.     I  bring  it  you 

In  memory  of  the  love  I  bore.     Not  now 

Must  that  again  be  thought  of !     Waste  and  black 

My  life's  fields  lie  behind  me,  and  a  frost 

Has  stilled  the  music  of  my  hopes,  but  here 

If  I  may  dwell,  nor  trouble  you,  such  a  joy 

Were  mine,  I  dare  not  ask  it.     Oh  forgive 

The  weakness  !     Come  and  see  rny  gift !  " 

Ah,  tears 

Flowed  fast,  that  night,  from  springs  of  love  un- 
sealed 

Once  more  within  the  ancient  house  —  rare  tears 
Of  reconciliation,  grief,  and  joy  ! 
A  miracle,  it  seemed,  had  here  been  wrought, 
The   dead   brought   back   to  life.     And  with   him 

came 
The  prodigal,  repenting. 

So,  thenceforth, 

A  spirit  of  peace  within  the  household  dwelt. 
In  Jerry  a  swift-sent  age  these  years  had  brought, 


THE  SILENT  TIDE.  125 

To  soften  him,  wrought  with  all  the  woe  at  home 
Such  open,  gracious  dignity,  that  all 
For  cheer  and  guidance  learned  to  look  to  him. 
But  chiefly  th'  younger  Reuben  sought  his  aid, 
And  he  with  homely  wisdom  shaped  the  lad 
To  a  life's  loving  duty.     Yet  not  long, 
Alas  !  the  kind  sea-farer  with  them  stayed. 
After  some  years  his  storm-racked  body  drooped. 
The  season  came  when  crickets  cease  to  sing 
And  flame-curled  leaves  fly  fast ;  and  Jerry  sank 
Softly  toward  death.     Then,  on  a  boisterous  morn 
That  beat»the  wrecked  woods  with  incessant  gusts 
To  wrest  some  last  leaf  from  them,  he  arose 
And    passed   away.      But   those   who   loved    him 

watched 

His  fading,  half  in  doubt,  and  half  afraid, 
As  if  he  must  return  again  ;  for  now 
Entering  the  past  he  seemed,  and  not  a  life 
Beyond  ;  and  some  who  thought  of  that  old  grave 
In  the  orchard,  dreamed  a  breath's  space  that  the 

man 

Long  buried  had  come  back,  and  could  not  die.  ' 
But  so  he  died,  and,  ceasing,  made  request 
Beside  that  outcast  of  the  deep  to  lie. 
None  other  mark  desired  he  but  the  stone 


126  THE  SILENT  TIDE. 

Set  there  long  since,  though  at  a  stranger's  grave, 
In  heavy  memory  of  him  thought  dead. 

They  marked  the  earth  with  one  more  mound  be- 
side 

The  other,  near  a  gap  in  the  low  wall 
That  looked  out  seaward.     There  you  ever  hear 
The  deep,  remorseful  requiem  of  the  sea  ; 
And  there,  in  autumn,  windfalls,  showering  thick 
Upon  the  grave,  score  the  slow,  voiceless  hours 
With  unrebounding  stroke.     All  round  about 
Green  milkweed  rankly  thrives,  and  golden-rod 
Sprouts   from    his   prostrate    heart    in    fine-poised 

grace 
Of  haughty  curve,  with  every  crest  in  flower. 


